LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 

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THE   WIND   OF   DESTINY.    A  Novel.     i6mo, 
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BUT  YET  A  WOMAN.     A  Novel.     i6mo,  $1.25; 
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HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY, 

BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK. 


BUT  YET  A  WOMAN 


Novel 


BY 


ARTHUR  SHERBURNE   HARDY 


Love  is  too  young  to  know  what  conscience  is; 
Yet  who  knows  not,  conscience  is  born  of  love  ? 
SHAKESPEARE,  Sonnet  CLI. 


BOSTON   AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY 


1886 


Copyright,  1883, 
Br  ARTHUR  S.  IIARET 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge  : 
Eleetrotyped  and  Printed  by  II.  0.  Houghton  &  Co. 


; 


The  Dedication  of  this  Book  to 


but  the  acknowledgment  of  the  debt  of 
both  it  and  its 

AUTHOR. 


233095 


BUT   YET  A  WOMAN. 


I. 

THERE  are  some  men  who  reach  the  down* 
ward  slope  of  life  without  succumbing  to  Penelope, 
Phyllis,  or  Phryne.  Such  men  are  rare  ,•  never 
theless  they  exist,  for  M.  Michel  was  one.  Not 
that  any  strange  play  of  chances  had  made  his 
life  exceptional ;  in  its  outward  circumstances  it 
had  not  differed  from  that  of  most  men.  It  was 
M.  Michel  himself  who  was  exceptional.  During 
the  forty  years  that  had  elapsed  since  he  left  the 
Lyce*e  Louis-le-Grand  many  women  had  crossed 
his  path,  of  whose  charms  he  was  not  ignorant 
and  to  whose  influence  he  was  a  debtor.  More 
than  once  they  had  softened  his  convictions  and 
purified  his  ideals,  for  he  was  neither  a  hermit  nor 
a  scoffer.  Of  that  little  circle  of  friends  in  which 
he  moved,  which  the  years  had  narrowed  only  to 
render  it  more  essential,  they  formed  an  alto 
gether  necessary  part,  whose  banishment  would 
have  dismayed  him. 

Still,  for  M.  Michel,  woman  existed  as  it  were 
en  masse.  As  says  the  proverb,  he  admired  the 


2  BUT  YET  A    WOMAN. 

forest  without  seeing  the  trees.  Indispensable  to 
society  as  the  flowers  of  the  Luxembourg  to  the 
gardens  in  which  he  took  his  daily  walk,  it  had 
never  occurred  to  him  to  appropriate  either  the 
one  or  the  other. 

"  Is  not  this  delicious ! "  his  niece  said,  one 
morning,  showing  him  a  rose  wet  with  dew. 

"  Exquisite,  but  I  prefer  the  violet." 

"  Ah,  how  provoking!  Yesterday  we  had  vio 
lets,  and  you  preferred  roses." 

Yet  M.  Michel  was  far  from  being  difficile.  On 
the  contrary,  a  certain  large-heartedness  dissipated 
his  affections.  He  preferred  neither  roses  nor  vio 
lets,  but  loved  only  flowers.  He  admired  neither 
one  nor  many  women,  but  only  woman.  Indeed, 
some  of  M.  Michel's  friends  had  affirmed  that  it 
was  precisely  this  eccentricity  which  rendered  him 
so  agreeable.  In  his  society  they  escaped  for  a 
time  that  mania  of  appropriation  which  even  a 
coquette  tires,  at  times,  of  provoking  ;  with  him 
one  could  lower  one's  guard  without  danger,  and 
indulge  in  a  certain  abandon  with  security. 

If  this  man  had  ever  inspired  certain  senti 
ments  of  another  kind  he  had  remained  ignorant 
of  them,  if  only  because  he  did  not  reciprocate 
them.  Doubtless,  like  others,  he  had  had  his  op 
portunities  without  making  them.  With  a  good 
figure  and  manners,  a  loyal  heart  and  gentle  dis 
position,  to  say  nothing  of  his  rentes,  it  were 
strange  had  it  been  otherwise.  But  his  sixtieth 


BUT  YET  A    WOMAN.  3 

year  found  him  still  alone  with  his  young  orphan 
niece  Re*nee. 

Without  ever  having  thought  of  it,  M.  Michel's 
feelings  of  love  and  admiration  for  his  niece, 
while  genuine  and  sincere,  were,  apparently  at 
least,  of  the  same  somewhat  abstract  character. 
His  life,  it  is  true,  would  have  been  desolate  with 
out  her.  She  managed  his  household  admirably; 
she  presided  at  those  little  reunions  of  friends  so 
dear  to  him  at  his  age.  In  entering  that  large 
salon,  whose  tones  were  so  subdued,  everything  in 
dicated  indefinably  a  reigning  presence,  and  that, 
too,  of  a  woman.  A  certain  grace  and  refine 
ment  hovered,  like  the  fragrance  of  a  flower,  over 
every  trifle.  He  was  far,  too,  from  esteeming  his 
niece  only  as  an  excellent  housekeeper.  Her 
wishes,  her  whims  even,  were  law  to  him,  and  had 
need  been  he  would  have  done  a  chivalrous  deed 
as  gallantly  as  any  knight  of  the  Round  Table. 
For  her  he  unlocked  the  doors  of  that  library, 
that  other  world  of  unbroken  silence,  of  which  he 
once  said,  "  It  is  a  little  space  fenced  off  from 
illusions,  maskings,  and  shadows ;  here  are  no 
voices,  only  echoes,  no  action^  only  its  photo 
graph  ;  here  no  events  transpire*  but  here  is  the 
record  of  all,  and  this  alone  is  real  and  durable." 
Moreover,  for  her  he  stopped  every  Saturday  night 
at  the  Oonfiserie  of  the  Rue  de  1'Ecole  de  Mede- 
cine,  and  brought  away  a  white  package  tied  with 
a  blue  ribbon. 


4  BUT  YET  A    WOMAN. 

Yet  for  all  this,  one  night  his  niece  said  to  him, 
"  Be  a  little  less  good  to  me,  and  love  me  more, 
my  uncle."  Such  a  philosophy  so  puzzled  the 
worthy  man  that  he  could  only  make  a  gesture  of 
remonstrance. 

But  Mademoiselle  Rdnde  was  thoroughly  in  ear 
nest,  and  had  vaguely  come  to  understand  that 
life  is  not  composed  of  generalities.  So  far  from 
being  content  with  the  even  affection  and  gener 
osity  of  her  uncle,  she  would  have  preferred  him 
more  exacting.  In  her  quiet  retirement  with  this 
old  n -an  her  young  heart  rebelled  against  a  peace 
for  which  it  was  not  made  ;  unconsciously  she  had 
learned  that  happiness  is  only  a  relative.  Look 
ing  one  night  from  her  window  on  the  lights  and 
glare  of  the  great  city,  she  exclaimed,  "  If  he  loved 
me,  RSnee,  I  would  make  him  cry  with  despair 
and  happiness !  "  So  true  is  it  that  the  human 
heart  craves  that  tyrannous  love  which  is  selfish 
and  imperious  even,  which  in  giving  all  takes 
everything,  and  is  like  an  exarch's  sword,  with 
pain  and  pleasure  for  its  two  edges. 

It  had  been  raining  all  day,  and  a  mist  hung 
over  the  city.  Wrapped  in  its  folds,  dome  and 
spire  assumed  colossal  proportions,  and  as  the 
night  advanced  seemed  to  sway  with  their  gigantic 
shadows.  Water  was  dripping  from  every  projec 
tion  ;  the  doors  of  the  cafds  were  closed,  and  their 
lights  struggled  feebly  with  the  storm  and  dark 
ness.  This  outside  gloom  made  the  salon  of  the 


BUT  YET  A    WOMAN.  5 

Rue  du  Bac  even  more  attractive  than  usual. 
Dinner  was  over,  the  open  fire  was  lighted,  and 
Re"  nee  was  serving  the  coffee  with  her  own  hands. 

Opposite  her  uncle,  near  the  fire,  sat  M.  Lande, 
an  old  friend  and  playmate  of  fifty  years  ago,  now 
first  violin  at  the  Opera.  The  son  of  a  farmer, 
Ernest  Lande  had  never  forgotten  the  kindness  of 
his  companion,  the  only  son  of  the  mayor  at  Bri- 
enne,  —  at  that  time  a  great  dignitary  in  his  eyes. 
Widely  different  as  had  been  their  paths  in  life, 
he  had  sought  out  this  friend  of  his  childhood 
after  thirty  years  of  buffeting,  and  found  him  un 
changed.  Thus  it  happened  that  for  nearly  twen 
ty  years  he  had  enjoyed  almost  without  interrup 
tion  his  regular  evening  before  M.  Michel's  fire. 

On  accepting  his  coffee  from  the  hand  of  Rene"e, 
he  always  rose.  He  remembered  well  the  little 
girl  who  had  put  out  her  cheek  for  a  kiss  at  his 
coming,  and  lain  asleep  in  his  arms  before  that 
same  fire.  One  day,  when  this  little  girl,  instead 
of  Baptiste,  brought  him  his  coffee,  he  was  aston 
ished  to  find  her  a  little  girl  no  longer.  From 
that  time  he  said  "  Mademoiselle,"  and  a  shade  of 
constraint,  mingled  with  deference,  characterized 
his  manner.  This  at  first  amused  Re'ne'e,  and 
finally  won  her.  It  was  a  kind  of  homage,  direct 
without  ceasing  to  be  dignified,  to  whose  use  her 
uncle  was  a  stranger. 

"  Ah,  mademoiselle,"  he  said,  taking  his  coffee, 
"  how  many  more  times  will  you  do  this  for  me  !  " 


6  BUT  YET  A    WOMAN. 

"  One  would  suppose  you  were  going  on  a  long 
journey,  M.  Lande." 

"  It  is  true,  mademoiselle,"  lie  said  half  to  him 
self  ;  "  some  day  I  am  going  on  a  long  journey." 

"  You,  a  journey  !  "  exclaimed  Rene'e.  "  Are 
you  to  leave  Paris  ?  " 

He  looked  up  with  a  smile.  "  You  forget  how 
old  I  am  growing." 

Renee  was  touched.  M.  Lande  had  not  with 
stood  well  his  years  of  buffeting.  A  tired  heart  is 
a  poor  ally,  and  his  had  been  early  tired.  He  had 
been  well  described  by  a  critic  as  "one  who  would 
have  achieved  great  things  in  Paradise." 

"  You  are  no  older  than  my  uncle,"  said  Re'ne'e, 
gently. 

"  And  is  your  uncle  then  inviolable  ?  "  said  M. 
Michel,  coming  to  the  rescue. 

Re'ne'e  laughed  as  she  went  to  the  farther  end 
of  the  room,  where,  in  her  favorite  chair  by  the 
low  lamp,  she  used  to  read  while  the  friends  con 
versed  by  the  fire.  This  intimacy  between  her 
uncle  and  M.  Lande  she  respected  as  if  by  in 
stinct,  nnd,  once  with  her  book,  state  secrets  might 
have  been  discussed  with  impunity  at  the  hearth 
stone. 

The  conversation  to-night,  if  not  upon  state 
secrets,  was  somewhat  confidential  in  its  nature, 
and  in  these  confidences  between  man  and  man 
there  was  something  almost  pathetic.  Over  mat 
ter,*  on  which  women  prattle  innocently  together 


BUT   YET  A    WOMAN.  7 

like  children,  men  philosophize  in  the  third  per 
son.  Open  the  inner  doors  of  your  heart  and  ex 
perience,  and  your  friend  grows  silent ;  but  sink 
your  personality  in  abstractions,  and  he  will  dis 
cover  your  need,  and  cheer  without  wounding.  In 
our  strong  need  of  each  other  we  open  the  door 
\vide  to  woman,  unbandage  our  wounds,  and  cry 
"  Give  !  "  for  we  know  her  tenderest  of  nurses,  if 
not  wisest  of  physicians.  But  to  our  friend,  with 
whom  we  sit  before  the  fire  over  our  pipes,  we 
put  on  our  best  robes,  though  we  be  beggars,  and 
ask  alms  for  humanity.  Playing  this  little  farce 
together,  which  we  both  so  well  understand,  how 
many  hurts  are  soothed  without  once  being 
named  ! 

The  room  was  yet  unlighted,  for  the  rays  ot 
ReneVs  lamp  in  the  corner  hardly  reached  the 
fire.  The  flickering  flames  were  going  out;  the 
fire  itself  was  in  its  pensive  stage,  and  threw  a 
sunset  glow  upon  the  faces  of  its  watchers.  If  it 
be  true  that  the  world  we  see  reflects  itself  upon 
the  face,  it  is  also  certain  that  there  are  some 
faces  over  which  it  seems  to  have  little  power. 
Furrow  and  sadden  them  as  it  will,  a  native  light 
shines  from  the  eye,  which  shadows  and  wrinkles 
serve  only  to  intensify.  Strangely,  too,  it  is  oft- 
enest  the  simplest,  one  might  almost  say  the  soft 
est,  nature  which  refuses  the  world's  seal,  and 
wears  its  own  to  the  end ;  and  Ernest  Lande,  gen 
tle  and  timid  as  his  eyes  showed  him  to  be,  though 


g  BUT  YET  A    WOMAN, 

he  had  seen  more  of  the  world  than  falls  to  the 
lot  of  many  men,  bore  on  his  face  fewer  traces  of 
its   influence    than    does   many  a   stouter   heart, 
whose  prided  stoicism  is  often  only  a  strait-jacket 
which  that  very  world  it  affects  so  lightly  to  de 
spise  has  woven  and  hammered  out  for  it  as  the 
years  went  by.    Practically  his  working  days  were 
over  ;  yet  he  was  only  the  first  violin  at  the  Opera. 
«<•  If  you  had  left   your  provincial    heart  at  Bri- 
enne,"  a  friend  once  said  to  him,  "  they  would  be 
applauding  you  to-day  at   St.  Petersburg."     At 
duch   a  remark  M.  Lande  would   smile,   and,  like 
Certain  monosyllables,  his  smile  was  a  reproach,  a 
protest,   an    assent,   or  a   denial,  as  occasion    de 
manded. 

From  his  earliest  childhood  he  had  given  evi 
dence  of  that  passionate  love  of  music  which  was 
to  dominate  his  whole  life.  He  was  the  despair 
of  his  father,  who,  loving  him  deeply,  could  never 
seriously  and  determinedly  thwart  his  natural  pro 
clivity,  yet  never  understood  his  nature,  at  once 
timid  and  expansive, — a  dreamer,  who  thought 
more  of  the  rustle  of  the  corn  than  the  fullness  of 
the  harvest ;  so  awkward  in  the  duties  to  which 
circumstances  had  assigned  him  ;  stealing  away, 
after  the  tasks  of  the  day,  in  the  shadows  of  the 
hedges,  to  gain  the  town,  where,  perhaps,  some 
wandering  musicians  were  singing  the  operas  of 
Scarlatti,  or,  silent  and  shy,  with  his  beloved  vio 
lin,  to  the  secret  places  of  nature,  to  listen  to  the 


BUT  YET  A    WOMAN.  9 

voices  of  the  forest  birds  or  the  sounds  of  rushing 
waters. 

But  Pere  Lande  was  not  severe.  All  this  was 
a  misfortune  to  be  pitied,  not  a  crime  to  be  pun 
ished.  Often,  at  vespers,  something  in  Ernest's 
rapt  face,  as  he  sang  in  the  collegiate  choir,  some 
thing  in  that  clear  and  tremulous  voice,  spoke  to 
him  in  a  tongue  he  but  dimly  understood  of  a 
region  other  than  that  narrow  one  of  raw  prod 
ucts  in  which  he  lived,  and  made  him  silent  and 
thoughtful  as  he  walked  home,  with  his  son's 
hand  in  his  broad  palm.  It  was  thus  partly  from 
a  natural  kindness  of  heart,  partly  also  because  he 
saw  only  too  plainly  that  the  hand  which  held 
the  bow  was  not  fashioned  for  the  plow,  that 
he  yielded  to  Ernest's  entreaties,  joined  with  the 
influence  of  the  curd,  and  consented  to  his  depart 
ure  for  Italy.  In  this  consent  there  was  an  un 
dercurrent  of  silent  protest,  an  almost  mournful 
resignation  prophetic  of  disaster,  not  wholly  con 
cealed  that  spring  morning,  when  he  waved  his 
hand  in  adieu  to  the  slender  figure  disappearing 
over  the  hillside  with  the  light  step  of  twenty 
years  yet  unsoiled  and  crowned  with  hope.  And 
a  year  later  it  was  with  a  certain  irritable  despair 
that  he  received  tidings  of  Ernest's  departure  for 
Paris.  "  To  seek  his  fortune  !  "  he  murmured  bit 
terly.  And  who  shall  say  that  Pere  Lande's  idea 
of  fortune,  broad,  sunny  lands,  fields  of  yellow 
wheat  sown  with  scarlet  coquelicots,  a  snug  roof 


10  BUT  YET  A    WOMAN. 

«?overing  vessels  of  golden  cream  and  white  cheeses, 
was  an  unworthy  one  ? 

Gerard  might  have  taken  him  as  a  model  for 
Youth  in  "  Les  Trois  Ages  "  had  he  seen  him,  still 
light-hearted  after  his  long  foot-journey,  with  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  thousand  lights  of  the  great  city, 
which  flashed  and  vanished  as  he  followed  the 
winding  road,  and  whose  distant  hum  seemed  to 
call  him  also  thitherward. 

Thereafter  matters  went  badly.  With  the  un 
concern  of  youth  he  married  early  a  pretty  face 
and  a  sour  heart,  and  forthwith  embarrassed  gen 
ius  with  five  children.  Producing  works  des 
tined  some  day  to  be  discovered,  he  had  none  of 
those  qualities  which  force  the  smiles  of  fortune 
or  gain  the  ears  of  managers.  Only  after  many 
years  had  an  opera,  begun  in  Rome  and  finished 
later  in  Paris,  been  produced  through  the  exer 
tions  of  friends,  securing  to  him  at  the  close  of 
life  a  tardy  fame  and  favor.  But  long  before  this 
the  spirit  had  been  broken,  —  broken  by  the  pros 
titution  of  his  talents  to  those  ways  and  means  of 
bare  subsistence  which  his  large  family  made  nec 
essary  ;  broken  by  the  gradual  flight —  for  it  was 
not  abandonment  —  of  his  hopes  and  ideals,  and 
not  least  by  the  wife  who  early  learned  that  art 
of  subtle  taunt  which  harasses  a  genius  that  can 
not  minister  to  coarse  ambitions.  Here  was  some 
thing  more  than  what  his  friend  called  provincial 
ism.  For  even  a  provincial  knows  how  to  steer, 


BUT  YET  A    WOMAN.  11 

and  garners  experience  with  his  harvests.  But  M. 
Lande  could  neither  steer  nor  beat.  The  tricks 
of  success  were  beyond,  nay,  rather  beneath,  his 
mastery.  His  friends  rightly  claimed  for  him 
genius,  but  it  was  a  genius  that  would  have  no 
trade ;  and  amid  the  rivalries,  the  deceits,  the  fol 
lies  of  this  great  capital,  his  life  went  in  and  out 
like  the  streams  among  the  hills  on  which  he  was 
nurtured,  —  darkened  by  the  shadows  of  the  for 
est,  but  pure  and  untainted. 

Upon  his  eldest  son,  Roger,  this  simple  but 
thwarted  life  had  made  a  profound  impression. 
Accustomed  from  his  earliest  remembrance  to  the 
querulous  tones  of  his  mother,  the  disorder  and 
often  need  which  resulted  from  her  improvidence ; 
drawn  to  his  father  by  a  love  which  had  no  other 
outlet,  and  which  in  later  years  ripened  into  a 
deep  sympathy,  he  had  read  in  his  eyes  a  warn 
ing  of  which  in  truth  his  father  was  unconscious, 
and  which  for  this  very  reason  was  more  impress 
ive.  At  once  studious  and  ambitious,  this  life  of 
domestic  un happiness  and  struggle  with  poverty, 
under  which  a  weaker  nature  would  have  suc 
cumbed,  or  from  which  a  more  volatile  one  would 
have  turned  in  quest  of  diversion,  slowly  forced 
him  back  upon  himself.  He  wished  to  be  inde 
pendent  of  all  this,  to  conquer  success  ;  and  this 
conquest  seemed  possible  only  by  the  suppression 
of  those  instincts  of  the  heart  to  which  his  father 
ever  yielded,  innocently,  but  with  the  abandon  oi 


12  BUT  YET  A    WOMAN. 

a  child.  The  influence  of  woman,  the  strain  of 
the  affections,  the  toil  wasted  in  meeting  wants 
incessantly  renewed,  all  that  in  his  own  home  he 
had  seen  frittering  away  the  energies  of  talent 
and  weighting  the  wings  of  genius,  he  wished  to 
sacrifice,  if  sacrifice  it  was.  He  wished  to  live 
like  Carlyle's  Professor  in  his  tower  seat  among 
the  stars,  above  the  city  sweltering  in  passion  and 
want  below.  It  was  this  ambition  which  had 
driven  him  early  from  home  into  a  bare  attic  in 
the  Latin  Quarter,  which  had  kept  closed  for  him 
the  door  of  Bullier  and  the  Valentino,  and  which 
gave  him  among  his  associates  of  the  Ecole  de 
Medecine,  who,  in  spite  of  their  studies,  were  not 
insensible  to  the  joys  of  the  present,  the  sobri 
quet  of  "  the  man  of  the  future." 

This  habit  of  thought  developed  with  the  in 
tensity  natural  to  his  age  into  an  intellectual 
cynicism,  without  bitterness  because  without  real 
experience.  His  theory  of  life  was  an  a  priori 
one,  but  it  worked  well.  He  passed  with  credit, 
though  without  brilliancy,  through  his  prepara 
tory  studies ;  and  after  his  professional  training 
in  the  hospital  began  to  make  himself  felt  as  a 
man  of  resource  and  careful  judgment,  and  sub 
sequently,  in  his  surgeon's  practice,  as  the  surest 
operator  in  Paris.  Others  were  more  famous,  but 
in  his  reputation  was  that  element  of  steady 
growth  which  already  made  him  an  oracle  in  the 
lecture  room. 


BUT  YET  A    WOMAN.  13 

The  glow  of  the  fire  had  almost  disappeared 
when  the  door  opened,  and  Baptiste  announced 
M.  Roger  Lande.  Engrossed  in  his  professional 
studies,  he  had  resolutely  avoided  all  society,  even 
that  of  his  father's  friends.  To  his  father's  so 
licitations  he  said,  "  Of  the  world  I  see  enough 
under  the  counterpanes,"  and  to  his  friends  he 
pleaded  his  duties.  Summoned  the  month  before 
to  Beauvais  to  see  an  old  nobleman  stricken  with 
the  gout,  he  had  met  there  M.  Michel,  who  for 
twenty  years  had  never  missed  passing  August  in 
Beauvais.  While  waiting  the  train  for  Paris, 
under  the  trees  of  the  garden  in  front  of  the  Ca 
sino,  M.  Michel  had  introduced  himself  as  the  old 
friend  of  his  father,  the  surest  passport  to  Roger's 
favor.  Charmed,  as  was  every  one,  with  his  man 
ner  and  conversation,  Roger  had  promised  to  renew 
at  Paris  their  chance  acquaintanceship,  a  promise 
which,  perhaps,  would  not  have  been  given  had 
he  known  that  it  involved  a  presentation  to  Ma 
demoiselle  Re*nee.  On  this  his  father's  sixtieth 
birthday  he  made  his  second  entrance  into  M. 
Michel's  salon. 

He  was  now  a  man  of  about  twenty-five,  his 
face  pale  but  striking,  though  not  handsome  after 
the  schools.  His  mouth  was  compressed  and  firm, 
his  forehead  narrow,  his  eye  sad  but  resolute, 
brilliant  but  without  vivacity.  As  he  came  into 
the  light  of  the  lamp  and  bowed  to  Rene*e,  one 
might  have  judged  this  man  narrow  in  nature,  even 


14  BUT  YET  A    WOMAN. 

domineering,  but  daring,  ambitious,  and  possessed 
of  that  rare  power  which  to  a  certain  extent  con 
trols  events,  but  is  not  controlled. 

He  shook  hands  cordially  with  M.  Michel,  who 
said,  "  Monsieur,  you  see  two  old  fogies  talking 
treason.  I  was  just  saying  that  the  price  of  suc 
cess  was  happiness." 

"  Sometimes,  also,  it  is  that  of  knowledge,"  re 
joined  Roger. 

ReneVs  eyes  were  on  her  book,  still  she  was 
not  reading.  Ordinarily  the  sententious  wisdom 
of  the  old  habitue's  of  her  uncle's  salon  troubled 
her  but  little.  For  her  it  had  none  of  that  mean 
ing  which  experience  alone  imparts  to  it.  Amid 
all  those  reflections  which  escaped  so  often  from 
the  lips  of  the  old  she  moved  serenely.  But  the 
advent  of  Roger  Lande  into  the  quiet  and  orderly 
routine  of  the  Rue  du  Bac  was  the  apparition  of 
a  new  planet  in  the  system.  His  voice  forced  her 
attention,  and  she  found  herself  listening  for  his 
replies  with  expectancy.  In  the  presence  of  this 
young  stranger  she  felt  a  sympathy  and  an  in 
terest  which  his  youth  alone  was  sufficient  to  in 
spire  by  contrast  with  his  surroundings. 

Moreover,  there  comes  a  time  when  the  spring 
buds  are  ready  to  open.  It  matters  little  whether 
it  be  the  long  summer  sun,  or  but  one  of  those 
hours  of  capricious  warmth  which  are  succeeded 
by  frost  and  blight ;  when  their  time  is  come  they 
follow  blindly  the  laws  of  their  own  growth.  It 


BUT  YET  A    WOMAN.  15 

is  the  moment  for  which  they  have  lived,  and 
under  that  warm  breath  they  yield  without  re 
serve  all  those  treasures  so  long  prepared.  It  is 
so  with  the  human  heart.  How  many  times  an 
April  sun  violates  its  tender  blossoms,  which  do 
not  hesitate  to  obey  the  mysterious  instincts  of 
their  nature  !  Counsels  of  experience,  wise  plead 
ings,  stern  commands,  how  powerless  are  they  all 
to  imprison  this  young  heart,  to  combat  that  sub 
tle  force,  at  once  so  gentle  and  so  persistent,  under 
which  resolutely  and  fearfully  it  unfolds  and  sur 
renders  !  Prudence,  human  conventions,  reason 
itself,  are  all  too  fragile  to  contain  this  infinite 
need  and  desire,  to  restrain  this  hope,  to  tether 
and  pinion  this  young  life  which  must  needs  enter 
the  struggle  even  with  the  certainty  of  being  van 
quished. 

"  Think  of  it !  it  is  fifty  years,"  said  M.  Michel, 
"  since  your  father  and  myself  played  together  in 
the  fields  about  Brienne.  Those  were  the  days 
of  illusions.  We  entered  every  door  as  if  it  were 
the  gate  of  Paradise,  for  they  were  then  all  gar 
landed  with  roses." 

"  Some  of  which  are  not  yet  faded,"  said  M. 
Lande. 

"  That  is  because  we  have  put  on  the  spectacles 
of  philosophers." 

"  In  which  case  the  roses  are  in  the  spectacles," 
said  Roger. 

"You   are  wrong,  my   son,"    said    M.    Lande, 


16  BUT   YET  A    WOMAN. 

gently.  "  See  here  my  best  friend,  this  five  and 
this  chair  which  I  love,  this  hand  which  presses 
mine,  —  these  are  no  illusions." 

"  I  will  not  dispute  with  a  man  who  has  his 
proofs  at  hand,"  replied  Roger,  smiling.  "  More 
over,  I  am  incompetent  either  as  a  witness  or  a 
judge.  At  my  age  we  have  companions ;  at  yours, 
perhaps,  they  become  friends." 

"  You  think  so  because  you  will  to  think  so,1' 
continued  M.  Lande  gently.  It  was  not  his  first 
argument  with  Roger  on  this  subject.  "  But  con 
fess,  now,  it  is  not  your  desire.  You  have  devoted 
yourself  to  your  work,  and  you  make  light  of  sen 
timent,  as  if,"  he  added,  looking  up  into  his  son's 
face,  "  it  were  not  the  source  of  some  good  ac 
tions  ;  but  you  will  not  confess  that  you  have  a 
heart  without  needs  or  without  treasures.  Last 
night  was  the  close  of  the  season,  and  the  leader 
of  the  orchestra  was  sick.  I  took  his  place.  Guess 
now  what  fancy  entered  the  heads  of  these  Pa 
risians  !  You  would  never  imagine  it.  At  the 
end  of  the  overture  they  rose  on  their  feet  and 
applauded  the  first  violin,  for  a  moment  become 
leader.  This  gave  me  pleasure,  after  living  so 
many  years  with  these  good  people.  But  pres 
ently  all  this  noise  is  over,  the  music  is  silent, 
the  lights  are  extinguished,  and  this  bit  of  favor 
thrown  to  an  old  man  is  forgotten.  Not  ten  in 
the  house  will  think  of  him  again.  And  this  is 
just ;  man  grows  old,  but  the  world  is  ever  young, 


BUT  YET  A    WOMAN.  17 

full  of  new  thoughts  and  plans,  in  which  the  old 
have  no  share.  But  should  I  not  go  out  of  that 
empty  and  darkened  house  to  brood  over  these 
sad  thoughts  but  for  this  fireside  to  which  I  come, 
—  but  for  this  friend  who  has  the  strange  merit  of 
being  old  also  ?  For,  believe  me,  in  this  world,, 
which  is  ever  slipping  from  under  our  feet,  it  is 
the  prerogative  of  friendship  to  grow  old  with 
one's  friend." 

Touched  by  this  simple  eloquence,  the  two  men 
remained  silent. 

"  Nature  provides  well  for  us,"  pursued  M. 
Lande.  "  Youth  is  the  season  of  friendships, 
when  we  are  prodigal  with  our  affections,  and 
thus  it  happens  that  of  all  those  bonds  so  thought 
lessly  formed  some  endure.  It  is  an  instinct  of 
the  heart  which  provides  a  store  for  the  winter." 

He  spoke  with  an  ease  which  was  unusual,  and, 
having  finished,  he  rose,  a  little  embarrassed  at 
having  said  so  much. 

"  You  are  going  already !  "  exclaimed  M.  Mi 
chel.  "  But  at  least  we  will  have  our  sono*.  Come, 

O  ' 

Renee,  help  us  to  convince  this  young  heretic." 

Re* nee  put  down  her  book  and  went  to  the 
piano,  Roger  would  have  assisted  her. 

"  There  is  no  music,  monsieur,"  she  said.  "  I 
know  it  by  heart." 

And,  without  prelude,  she  began  in  a  soft  but 
clear  voice  to  sing.  Roger  stood  silently  watch 
ing  this  peaceful  scene.  That  voice  penetrated  the 


18  BUT  YET  A   WOMAN. 

deep  recesses  of  his  heart,  calling  forth  echoes 
which  he  did  not  seek  to  control.  It  was  an  old 
story  of  Switzerland,  of  the  time  of  good  Queen 
Bertha,  a  picture  of  childhood,  home,  and  peace. 
To  this  man  of  the  hospitals  it  opened  horizons, 
which  hung,  like  the  mirage  of  the  desert,  over 
wastes  of  sand. 

The  song  was  over  ;  he  had  bidden  M.  Michel 
good-night,  who  said,  "  You  see,  monsieur,  we  still 
live  dans  le  temps  que  la  Reine  Berthe  filait ;  " 
he  was  in  the  street  again,  buttoning  up  his  coat 
against  the  mist  and  rain. 

"  Bonsoir,  M.  le  Docteur"  said  the  concierge, 
as  he  turned  into  his  own  door.  His  reply  opened 
her  eyes  with  wonder :  — 

«  Bah  I  it  is  all  a  dream." 


BUT  YET  A    WOMAN.  19 


n. 

THE  following  week  occurred  one  of  M.  Mi 
chel's  reunions,  and  M.  Lande  was  surprised  to 
find,  on  bis  return  from  rehearsal,  a  note  from 
Roger,  begging  he  would  accompany  him.  In  fact, 
Roger  himself  was  surprised  to  find  he  had  writ 
ten  it.  Accustomed  to  accumulate  work,  and  to 
substitute  a  pressure  of  professional  duty  as  a  bar 
rier  between  himself  and  society,  bis  entrance  into 
M.  Michel's  Saturday  evening  salon  was  an  event 
for  which  certain  malicious  persons  gave  Made 
moiselle  Renee  the  credit.  And  in  this  respect  they 
were  partly  right,  as  he  himself  would  have  ad 
mitted.  Quick  to  read  cbaracter,  none  better  than 
he  could  have  dissected  Roger  Lande,  — for  it  is 
not  so  difficult  to  know  one's  self  as  to  confess  to 
the  knowledge,  —  and  beneath  his  desire  to  lose 
himself  in  his  profession,  behind  the  armor  which 
he  wore,  he  knew  the  man,  like  other  men,  with 
nerves  ready  to  tremble  and  pulses  that  obey 
smiles  and  frowns.  Of  the  two  classes  who  are 
cynics,  one  from  observation,  the  other  from  ex 
perience,  he  belonged  to  the  former.  He  was 
what  he  was  because  he  wished  to  be,  not  because 
he  could  not  help  it.  But,  like  many  another,  he 


20  BUT  YET  A    WOMAN. 

had  not  counted  on  the  unexpected.  It  was  the 
old  fable  of  the  sun  and  the  wind.  In  the  strug 
gle  of  life,  amid  the  misery  of  the  hospitals  and 
the  secrets  of  his  profession,  he  buckled  up  his 
armor  and  lowered  his  visor;  but  the  glimpse  of 
that  sunny  home  and  quiet  fireside  of  the  Rue  du 
Bac  was  a  window  opened  out  of  heaven,  and 
through  Renee's  eyes  he  beheld  this  other  self, 
which  uprose,  a  sudden  apparition,  saying,  "  Thou 
shalt  not  serve  two  masters  !  " 

When  they  entered  M.  Michel's  salon  the  guests 
had  already  assembled.  Most  of  its  habitue's  were 
of  long  standing.  It  had  grown  as  a  circle  of  in 
timate  friends  grows,  slowly,  and  was  emphatically 
conservative.  It  possessed  no  representatives  from 
the  gay  society  of  the  capital,  for  whom  these 
people  would  have  been  objects  of  curiosity  pre 
served  in  alcohol.  With  the  exception  of  M.  de 
Marzac,  a  well-known  journalist,  and  Madame 
Milevski,  M.  Michel's  young  half-sister,  recently 
returned  from  Russia,  this  little  society  repre 
sented  the  sediment  of  a  life-time  of  social  inter 
course.  It  was  the  residue  of  the  evaporation  of 
forty  years,  and  it  had  settled  in  M.  Michel's  salon 
because  in  this  quiet  place  there  was  no  danger 
that  it  Avould  be  disturbed. 

To  most  of  these  people  Roger  was  a  stranger. 
M.  Michel,  greeting  him  cordially,  presented  him 
to  two  gentlemen  with  whom  he  was  conversing, 
M.  de  Marzac  and  the  Baron  Scherer,  —  the  lat- 


BUT  YET  A    WOMAN.  21 

ter  a  cynic  because  he  could  not  help  it,  a  member 
of  the  Academy,  and  possessing  the  order  of  the 
Holy  Ghost. 

"  M.  Lande  has  but  one  fault,"  said  M.  Michel, 
—  "  that  of  being  still  young." 

"  It  is  one  he  will  have  the  misfortune  to  over 
come,"  said  the  baron  with  his  smile ;  for  notwith 
standing  his  cynicism,  the  baron,  who  belonged  to 
a  past  generation,  possessed  a  smile  which  was 
part  of  a  manner  in  which  he  wrapped  himself, 
like  a  Spanish  beggar  in  his  cloak,  and  in  which 
he  secretly  took  more  pride  than  in  the  cross  of 
the  Holy  Ghost. 

"  Misfortune !  On  the  contrary ;  and  I  have 
brought  him  to  you  that  he  may  see  in  the  man 
of  sixty,  two  others  whom  I  used  to  know  and  still 
recognize,  the  man  of  twenty  and  the  man  of 
forty." 

"  You  give  M.  Lande  a  long  time  to  wait  for 
canonization,"  said  a  voice  behind  Roger. 

He  turned  to  recognize  a  woman  whom  he  had 
not  before  noticed. 

"  Stephanie  Milevski ! "  he  exclaimed,  half 
aloud. 

"  Is  this  sanctity  only  reached  at  sixty  ?  "  and 
in  her  voice  there  was  the  sweetness  and  the 
mockery  of  a  bird's. 

44  What  we  barely  win  at  sixty,  my  sister,  you 
surely  will  not  dispute  with  us,  since  you  may 
claim  it  already." 


22  BUT  YET  A    WOMAA. 

"  Oh,  with  us  sanctity  is  a  birthright." 

"  Anu,  being  lightly  acquired,  is  lightly  held," 
said  M.  de  Marzac. 

It  was  a  remark  he  would  have  recalled,  but  it 
was  too  late.  Stephanie  turned  quickly  with  the 
look  and  gesture  of  one  who  notices  an  adversary 
only  to  punish  him. 

"  Interpret  your  riddle,  M.  de  Marzac  ;  we  are 
dying  to  hear  it.  You  protest  ?  Well,  I  know  its 
meaning,  and  you  are  right.  It  is  a  birthright 
which  is  often  sold  for  a  mess  of  pottage.  You 
did  not  know,  M.  Lande,"  she  continued,  turning 
to  Roger,  "  that  M.  de  Marzac  was  a  moralist. 
To  tell  the  truth,  neither  did  I.  He  is  a  continual 
surprise  ;  he  has  always  a  leaf  unturned.  And 
that  reminds  me,"  she  added  to  M.  de  Marzac, 
"  have  you  seen  Sartain's  new  book  ?  No  ?  It 
is  very  amusing.  It  is  even  said  that  you  figure 
in  it  yourself." 

"  Ah!  and  in  what  guise? "  he  asked.  He  had 
begun  in  ill  humor  with  some  one,  and  had  finished 
by  becoming  so  with  himself.  Having  lost  his 
temper,  he  had  lost  also  his  guard. 

"  Well,  if  you  are  curious,  of  a  lover  with  the 
motto,  J'en  vis  et  je  I1  Steins"  with  which  thrust 
she  joined  Rdne'e,  who  was  talking  with  old  M/ 
Lande. 

"  In  love  as  in  war  all  is  fair,  is  it  not,  M.  de 
Marzac  ?"  said  the  baron,  compassionately. 

"  Certainly,"  he  replied,  coldly,  "  for  love  h 
war." 


BUT  YET  A    WOMAN.  23 

"You  know  Madame  Milevski?"  the  baron 
asked  Roger. 

"  I  have  met  her  professionally." 

"  A  very  safe  way,"  said  M.  de  Marzac,  dryly. 

"  Is  she  so  very  dangerous  ?  " 

"  Pardon  me,  here  is  the  cur£  of  St.  Eustache; 
he  will  answer  you.  Shall  I  present  you  ?  " 

"  I  have  the  honor  to  know  him  already,"  said 
Roger.  "  We  also  meet  professionally,  —  too 
often,  I  fear,  monsieur,"  he  said  to  the  priest. 

"  Nob  here,  at  all  events,"  said  Father  Le  Blanc  ; 
"  and  here  we  will  teach  you  a  secret  not  in  your 
books,  —  that  of  perpetual  youth.  I  tell  you  be 
forehand  that  you  may  follow  the  cue.  You  might 
misconduct  yourself.  Seriously,  you  have  fallen 
into  the  pleasantest  room  in  Paris." 

"And  its  charm?" 

"  Faith,  if  you  do  not  discover  it,  I  cannot  tell 
you.  We  are  not  paragons.  Here,  for  example, 
is  M.  le  Baron,  an  old  courtier  who  somehow 
manages  to  believe  in  the  present  "  — 

"  And  Madame  Stephanie,  who  believes  in  the 
past,"  interposed  the  baron. 

"  Ah !  Madame  Milevski  is  here  ? "  said  the 
priest,  putting  on  his  glasses,  and  abandoning  his 
classification  of  the  guests  which  the  baron's  re 
mark  had  interrupted. 

She  was  standing  in  the  centre  of  the  room 
with  Ren  de.  The  most  striking  thing  about  her 
was  a  simplicity  which  had  always  been  the  de* 


24  BUT  YET  A    WOMAN. 

spair  of  her  imitators.  In  a  close-fitting  dress  of 
black,  relieved  by  none  of  the  accessories  of  a  role 
a  la  mode,  there  was  an  extraordinary  freshness, 
almost  girlishness,  in  her  appearance,  which  did 
not  suffer  even  from  the  close  proximity  of  Renee. 
She  wore  no  jewelry  except  a  dagger  of  brilliants 
fastening  a  lace  scarf  on  her  bosom. 

When  the  cure*  had  adjusted  his  glasses  it  was 
to  receive  one  of  those  smiles  which  appear  to  the 
recipient  as  if  vouchsafed  to  him  only. 
"  Yes,  it  is  she,"  he  said. 

"  She  tells  me  Sartain  has  a  new  book.     Have 
you  read  it  ?  "  asked  the  baron. 
"  Yes,  it  is  very  witty." 

"  Tell  us  about  it,"  and*  the  baron  drew  the 
two  men  to  the  sofa,  where  he  sat  down  between 
them. 

"  It  is  a  book  destined  to  be  popular,"  said  the 
priest;  "a  book  which,  without  breaking  with 
morality,  tolerates  evil,  makes  conscience  the  child 
of  custom,  and  prescribes  to  every  one  what  he 
most  likes.  It  is  called  a  Romance  of  the  Cen 
tury.  Well,  it  is  also  its  philosophy." 
"And  that  philosophy  ?  " 

"  Is  the  study  of  self,"  said  the  curd ;  "  a  philos 
ophy  which  M.  Sartain  seeks  to  make  also  a  re 
ligion." 

"•  I  thought  he  was  a  good  Catholic,"  said  M.  do 
Marzac. 

"  If  so,  he  holds  his  faith  in  reserve,  like  your* 


BUT  YET  A    WOMAN.  25 

self,"  the  priest  replied,  laughing  good-naturedly, 
"for  a  time  of  danger." 

"  Good-evening,  father,"  said  Stdphanie,  ap 
proaching  them,  and  holding  out  her  white  hand 
in  her  frank  English  fashion.  "  No,"  she  added, 
as  he  rose ;  "  to  tell  the  truth,  I  am  afraid  of  you. 
I  know  you  have  been  reading  a  homily.  M.  de 
Marzac  betrays  you.  Ah,  for  a  diplomat,  mon 
sieur,  what  a  tell-tale  face  you  have  !  " 

"  I  congratulate  you  on  the  skill  with  which  you 
compliment  your  own  divination,"  he  replied, 
stiffly. 

Roger,  seeing  Rdnde  left  alone  at  this  instant, 
crossed  over  to  the  table  at  which  she  sat.  Bap- 
tiste  was  arranging  some  curious  Sevres  cups  des 
tined  for  the  coffee.  "  What  a  pretty  picture  !  " 
he  thought  as  he  approached  her. 

"  Will  you  allow  me  to  sit  down  beside  you, 
mademoiselle?  I  have  been  trying  to  reach  you 
ever  since  I  came." 

"  If  you  will  be  content  with  a  divided  atten 
tion,  M.  Lande.  You  see  I  must  give  to  each  one 
his  proper  allowance  of  sugar.  I  am  obliged  to 
think  very  carefully.  Now  this  cup  is  for  Father 
Le  Blanc.  You  see  I  put  three  lumps  into  it. 
Think  how  sweet  it  must  be,  in  such  a  tiny  cup ! 
There  is  scarcely  room  for  the  coffee.  Baptiste," 
she  said,  leaning  forward,  "this  is  for  M.  Le 
Blanc,  and  this  for  M.  Scherer.  And  ask  my  aunt 
If  she  will  have  coffee," 


26  BUT  YET  A    WOMAN. 

"Stephanie   Milevski !     Is  she    your   aunt?" 
asked  Roger  in  surprise. 

"  Yes.     Do  you  know  her  ?  " 

«*  Oh,  I  meet  a  great  many  people  whom  I  do 
not  know,"  he  replied,  evasively. 

"  But  you  seemed  so  surprised,"  persisted  Rene*e. 

"  Did'l  ?  Well,  she  appears  so  young.  No  one 
would  ever  suppose  her  to  be  M.  Michel's  sister." 

"  She  is  young,"  said  Renee,  looking  over  to 
where  she  stood.  "  Then,  you  know,  she  is  only 
a  half-sister.  Where  did  you  meet  her,  M.  Lande  ? 
Here  in  Paris  ?  " 

"  No,  at  Aix-les-Bains.  Aix  is  one  of  my  spe 
cifies.  Have  you  ever  been  there  ?  " 

RSneVs  manner  had  the  ease  and  fearlessness  of 
innocence.  In  this  she  differed  from  Stephanie, 
whose  self-possession  was  evidently  also  an  accom 
plishment.  She  did  not,  therefore,  notice  Roger's 
evasion,  which  to  the  mere  accomplishment  would 
have  been  a  note  of  alarm. 

"No,  never.  St6phanie  has  been  almost  a 
stranger  to  me.  I  have  not  seen  her  many  times 
in  my  whole  life.  But  M.  Michel  is  very  fond  of 
her.  Do  you  not  think  she  is  very  charming  ?  I 
feel  already  as  if  I  had  known  her  for  years." 

"  That  is  probably  one  secret  of  her  charm." 

"Is  it? "said  R6nde,  reflectively,  and  looking 
over  at  Stephanie  again.  «  That  is  M.  de  Marzac 
with  whom  she  is  talking." 

"  I  have  just  been  presented,"  said  Roger,  fol 


BUT  YET  A    WOMAN.  27 

lowing  ReneVs  eyes.  "  They  must  be  either  the 
best  or  worst  of  friends,  mademoiselle." 

"  And  why,  monsieur  ?  " 

"Because  they  seem  to  be  continually  at 
sword's  points." 

"Do  they?"  said  Rende,  laughing.  "If  you 
had  said  M.  Scherer,  I  should  not  have  been  sur 
prised.  They  are  political  enemies.  That  is,  M. 
Scherer  has  just  given  in  his  allegiance  to  the 
Orleans  princes,  and  I  think  Stephanie  could  more 
easily  love  the  Bonapartists  than  forget  treason 
to  the  king." 

"  You  think  it  treason,  then,  to  become  an  Or- 
leanist  ?  "  Renee's  assurance  amused  him. 

"  M.  Le  Blanc  says  that  change  is  always  trea 
son.  But  there !  every  one  is  served  except  M. 
Lande,  and  I  must  carry  this  myself,"  and  she 
took  up  a  little  silver  tray.  "  Pardon  me ;  it  is 
an  old  custom." 

Roger  watched  her  slender  form  as  she  went, 
and  saw  his  father's  face  light  up  with  pleasure. 
He  had  hoped  she  would  return,  but  she  lingered 
at  the  farther  end  of  the  room,  and  he  saw  Father 
Le  Blanc  approaching. 

"  I  trust  we  shall  see  you  here  often,  M.  Lande," 
said  the  priest,  seating  himself  beside  Roger.  "  We 
old  habitues  have  the  right  of  invitation." 

"  It  is  a  pleasure  I  fear  I  cannot  often  enjoy. 
My  time  is  not  my  own,  and,  in  fact,  I  have  an 
appointment  to-night  which  I  must  soon  meet." 


28  BUT  YET  A    WOMAN. 

"  Yes,  yours  is  a  busy  profession  and  a  hard 
one/'  the  priest  said,  settling  himself  comfortably, 
and  resting  his  fat  hands  on  his  knees. 

"  Yet  I  would  not  for  that  reason  exchange 
with  you,  M.  le  Curd,"  said  Roger,  turning  to 
wards  his  companion,  and  looking  into  the  black 
eyes  which  gave  the  lie  a  little  to  his  thin  white 
hair. 

"  And  why  not  for  that  reason  ?  " 

"  Because,  while  we  are  both  at  the  call  of 
men's  needs,  I  go  only  to  see  those  of  the  body, 
but  you  to  know  those  of  the  soul." 

"They  are  often  the  same,  my  son,"  the  priest 
answered,  sighing.  "'The  flesh  lusteth  against 
the  spirit,'  and,"  he  added,  as  if  perhaps  he  had 
made  a  dangerous  admission,  "the  spirit  lusteth 
against  the  flesh.  We  are  too  much  discouraged 
because  we  are  not  able  to  do  what  we  will  to 
do ;  as  if  even  in  willing  there  were  no  spiritual 
victory." 

"It  is  a  victory  which  counts  for  little  in  this 

life." 

"  There  is  no  life  but  the  life  to  come,"  said  the 
priest,  solemnly.  "  You  were  speaking  of  an  ap 
pointment,"  he  resumed,  after  a  moment's  silence ; 
"  it  is  the  excuse  of  the  day.  I  will  wager  you  are 
going  to  the  conference  of  the  Medical  Society. 
Yes  ?  See  now,  I  thought  so  !  In  the  next  gen 
eration  society  will  be  given  over  to  the  fops ;  but 
in  my  day  men  of  merit  had  also  their  appoint- 


BUT  YET  A    WOMAN.  29 

merits  with  leisure.     Leisure,  do  I  say  ?     Such  a 
salon  as  this  was  a  school  of  instruction,  where, 
without  weariness,  in  an  atmosphere  of  wit,  learn 
ing,  and  beauty,  men  acquired  wisdom  as  well  as 
knowledge.     The  best  of  us,  M.  Lande,  need  an 
other  society  than  that  of  the  faculties  of  science 
and  philosophy,  the  society  which  polishes  with 
out  disintegrating,  which  warms  as  well  as  enlight 
ens.     Do   you   remember  the   maxim    of  Vauve- 
nargues? —  4  One  cannot  be  just  if  one    is    not 
human.'     Well,  the  school  of  humanity  is  society. 
It  is  dangerous  to  become  a  savant  at  the  risk  of 
ignoring  the  interests  of  the  heart." 
"  One  has  not  the  time  for  everything." 
4  That  is  only  saying  one  is  not  rich  enough  to 
buy  everything.     Time  is  a  standard  coin  in  every 
marked,  and  that  with  which  men  make  the  worst 
of  bargains  ! " 

«  Evidently  you  think  I  am  to  make  a  bad  in 
vestment  to-night,  since  I  am  going  to  exchange 

two  hours  of   it  for   the   memoir  of    M.  X . 

But  you  are  mistaken.     It  is  precisely  upon  the 
affections  of  the  heart." 

"  Oh !  "  said  Father  Le  Blanc,  lifting  his  shoul 
ders,  "  science  has  all  the  vocabulary  of  the  pas 
sions  ;  but  it  produces  only  the  moonlight  of  the 
theatre.  You  must  go?  "  he  said,  as  Roger  rose. 
''  I  am  sorry,  but  I  count  upon  seeing  you  here 
again  ;  and  this  time,"  he  added  gracefully,  "  I 
ask  you  not  on  your  account,  but  on  my  own." 


30  BUT  YET  A   WOMAN. 

Roger  acknowledged  the  compliment  with  a 
bow,  and  went  in  search  of  M.  Michel,  to  bid  him 
good-night. 

"  I  did  not  know  you  had  met  M.  Lande  be 
fore,"  Re'ne'e  was  saying  to  Stephanie.  The  lat 
ter  stooped  to  arrange  a  bud  that  had  become 
misplaced  on  ReneVs  dress.  "  Oh,  never  mind 
that  little  flower,"  said  Renee  ;  "  it  is  always  fall 
ing  off.  He  told  me  that  he  met  you  at  Aix-les- 
Bains." 

A  shade  of  anxiety  passed  over  Stephanie's  face. 
"  Yes,  at  Aix.  There  he  comes  now.  I  think 
he  is  going,  and  is  looking  for  you ;  "  and,  cross 
ing  the  room,  she  walked  slowly  towards  the 
door. 

After  making  his  excuses  to  Rene*e,  Roger  saw 
her  standing  at  the  coffee-table,  which  w&s  near 
the  vestibule. 

She  had  taken  one  of  the  Sevres  cups  from  the 
tray,  in  an  abstracted  way,  but  a  sudden,  earnest 
thoughtfulness  overspread  her  face,  which  that 
act  alone  certainly  did  not  warrant.  It  was  a  not 
uncommon  look,  which  sometimes  transformed 
her ;  the  soft  eyes  grew  full  of  purpose  ;  it  was  a 
transfiguration.  "  The  reverie  of  a  woman's  eyes 
is  always  mistaken  for  thoughtfulness,"  M.  de  Mar- 
zac  had  said  sneeringly ;  but  in  this  case,  at  least, 
he  was  wrong.  It  was  no  woman  in  dreamland 
who  stood  playing  with  the  china  cup,  in  Roger's 
passage  to  the  door ;  and  even  M.  de  Marzac 


BUT   YET  A    WOMAN.  31 

himself  had  felt  that  subtle  strength,  a  sort  of 
reserve  force,  which,  like  the  fragrance  of  a  lace 
handkerchief,  too  delicate  to  be  analyzed,  yet  too 
real  not  to  be  perceived,  emanated  from  that  lithe 
form. 

As  Roger  passed  her,  her  manner  changed  al 
most  to  indifferentisrn. 

"  Will  you  fill  my  cup,  M.  Lande  ?  "  she  said, 
languidly. 

Roger  lifted  the  quaint  silver  urn  from  its 
stand  over  the  flame,  and  slowly  filled  the  cup 
which  Stephanie  still  held  in  her  hand. 

"  So  it  seems  we  have  met  before,"  she  contin 
ued  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Well,  is  it  not  true  ?  "  he  asked,  quietly. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  and  as  he  re 
placed  the  urn  he  looked  into  her  face. 

"  I  have  given  you  the  word  of  a  gentleman," 
he  said,  as  if  in  answer  to  something  he  saw 
there.  Their  eyes  met  an  instant. 

"  And  I  trust  .you  with  the  faith  of  a  woman," 
she  replied,  turning  away. 

On  reaching  the  doorway  at  the  foot  of  the 
stairs,  Roger  took  his  right  to  the  quay,  in 
stead  of  turning  up  towards  the  Ecole  de  Mdde- 


cine. 


"  After  all,  I  will  not  go,"  he  said  to  himself. 

On  reaching  the  end  of  the  Rue  du  Bac,  he 
crossed  the  street  to  the  sidewalk  along  the  para 
pet  overlooking  the  river.  It  was  still  early,  and 


32  BUT  YET   A    WOMAN. 

the  streets  were  full  of  people.  The  lamps  from 
the  opposite  bank  threw  their  broad  lines  of  light 
over  the  dark  waters,  and  made  a  glare  overhead, 
through  which  the  stars  shone  as  through  a  fine 
mist.  He  walked  up  the  river,  crossed  the  Pont 
ie  la  Concorde,  and  entered  under  the  trees  of 
the  Cours  de  la  Reine.  Here  the  lights  and  the 
loungers  grew  less  frequent,  and  finding  at  last  a 
bench  in  a  secluded  spot,  he  lighted  a  cigar  and 

sat  down. 

A  few  weeks  before,  he  was  sitting  in  the  gar 
den  of  the  H6tel  du  Nord,  at  Aix-les-Bains.     He 
had  been  summoned  to  attend  a  patient,  whom 
he  had  sent  to  the  baths,  and,  having  returned 
from  the  consultation,  was  taking  his   coffee,  after 
the  table   d'hote,  in  the  evening  air.      His  table 
was  in  a   distant  corner,  remote  from  the  note 
entrance,  through  which  the  waiters  were  hurry 
ing  in  and  out,  serving  the  many  groups  scattered 
in  the  less  shaded  portion  of  the  garden,  under  the 
lanterns.     The  garden  itself  extended  behind  him 
still  farther,  but,  at  this  time,  was  already  deserted 
and  lost  in  obscurity.    Nevertheless,  in  the  pauses 
of  the  conversation  which  floated  out  to  him  on 
the   licrht  wind,   he  thought   at    times   he   heard 
voices  behind  him.     At  last,  in  a  lull  of  voices, 
when  the  rustle  of  the  leaves  ceased,  he  hean 
woman's  voice,  asking,  — 

"But  will  the  king  consent?  " 

An  unwilling  listener,   he  took  a  match   from 


BUT   YET  A    WOMAN.  3ft 

the  table  and  lighted  a  cigar.  Presently  a  woman 
emerged  from  the  shadow.  It  was  Stephanie  Mi- 
levski.  Still  concealed  in  the  darkness  in  which 
he  sat,  he  saw  her  distinctly  as  she  followed  the 
gravel  path  towards  the  hotel.  At  her  side 
walked  a  priest,  with  a  pale,  intellectual  face,  who, 
on  reaching  the  entrance,  waited  to  permit  her  to 
enter  first,  bowed,  and,  passing  through  the  hall 
way,  disappeared  into  the  street. 

In  all  this  there  was  an  air  of  mystery  which 
piqued  his  curiosity.  What  was  the  meaning  of 
this  strange  interview,  and  who  was  this  woman 
who  talked  with  a  priest  of  the  consent  of  a 
king?  Sooner  than  he  anticipated,  this  riddle, 
which  occupied  him  as  he  finished  his  cigar,  had  a 
partial  answer. 

As  he  followed  the  path  along  which  Stephanie 
had  preceded  him,  his  eye  was  caught  by  a  white 
object,  which  proved  to  be  a  letter.  The  en 
velope  was  large,  and  carefully  sealed.  On  enter 
ing  the  hotel  he  sought  for  some  evidence  of  its 
owner.  But  there  was  no  address  ;  only,  on  the 
back,  written  across  one  end  in  pencil,  "  To  be 
forwarded  to  the  king." 

Who  has  not  felt  that  resistless  pressure  which 
we  call  the  force  of  events,  which,  without,  often 
against,  the  voice  of  reason,  impels  us  forward  ? 

He  called  a  passing  waiter,  and  asked  who  was 
the  lady  that  had  just  entered. 

"  A  young  lady,  with  a  priest  ?  " 


34  BUT  YET  A    WOMAN 

«  Yes." 

"  Madame  Milevski,  monsieur." 

"  Take  her  this  card,  and  say  that  I  am  wait« 


ing" 


During  the  delivery  of  the  message  he  took  his 
tablets  from  his  pocket,  and  wrote  a  prescription. 
When  he  followed  his  guide  to  Madame  Milevski's 
salon,  he  held  it  in  bis  hand.  The  room  was 
rather  dimly  lighted  by  a  single  lamp,  instead  of 
candles,  and  its  soft  light  gave  an  appearance  of 
luxury  to  the  apartment.  In  the  shadow,  at  the 
open  window  overlooking  the  garden  in  the  rear, 
sat  its  only  occupant.  Through  the  thin  lace  cur 
tain  he  could  see  the  outline  of  her  form  against 
the  black  sky.  As  he  entered  she  rose,  and  stood 
for  a  moment  between  the  parted  curtains,  evi 
dently  expecting  him  to  speak. 

Sitting  under  the  trees  of  the  Cours  de  la 
Reine,  recalling  these  circumstances  of  his  first 
meeting  with  Stephanie  Milevski,  he  saw  before 
him  the  same  woman  from  whom  he  had  just 
parted.  As  she  stood  silently  holding  in  either 
hand  the  lace  hangings,  she  made  upon  him  then 
the  snme  impression  he  had  received  a  few  mo 
ments  before,  as  he  filled  her  cup  in  M.  Michel's 
salon.  In  her  voice,  in  her  manner,  in  her  atti 
tudes  even,  there  was  a  strange  confidence  and 
naturalness,  —  which,  except  in  children,  is  usu 
ally  only  the  fruit  of  intimacy,  —  blended  with  a 
dignity  which  was  almost  imperious.  But  for  tho 


BUT  YET  A   WOMAN.  35 

former,  the  latter  might  have  been  mistaken  fof 
the  reserve  of  society  ;  but  for  the  last,  the  first 
might  have  been  the  innocence  of  girlhood. 
There  was  about  her  that  fascination  which  in 
vites  yet  restrains ;  under  which  men  both  dare 
and  tremble. 

"  Madame,"  he  said,  glancing  at  his  card>  which 
she  held  in  her  hand,  "  I  am  a  physician.  Will 
you  permit  me  to  offer  you  the  advice  of  one  ?  " 

She  was  looking  at  him  curiously.  Certainly 
he  was  not  a  fool,  nor  did  he  have  the  air  of  a 
madman. 

"  Taking  my  coffee  to-night  in  the  garden,"  he 
continued,  looking  steadily  in  her  eyes,  "  I  no 
ticed  that  you  were  hoarse.  A  mere  nothing,  I 
admit,"  in  answer  to  the  interest  he  was  awaken 
ing  ;  "  still,  if  you  follow  carefully  the  directions 
of  this  prescription,  you  will  only  have  done  a 
duty  which  you  owe  to  yourself,"  and  he  laid  the 
folded  leaf  on  the  table. 

"  Your  interest,  monsieur,"  she  answered  for 
the  first  time,  coming  nearer  to  him,  "  does  me 
honor."  There  was  a  trace  of  irony  in  her  voice. 

"  On  the  contrary,  madame ;  and,  by  the  way, 
this  letter,"  taking  it  from  his  pocket  and  placing 
it  in  her  hands,  "does  it  perchance  belong  to 
you  ?  " 

A  sudden  pallor  overspread  her  face,  but  she 
recovered  herself  instantly. 

"  Where  did  you  possess  yourself  of  this  let* 


86  BUT  YET  A    WOMAN. 

ter?"    the  irony  deepening,  though    her  voice 
trembled  a  little. 

"It  seems  to  me  that  is  unimportant,  since  I 
have  given  it  to  you." 

"  Then  I  ought  to  thank  you,"  she  said,  after  a 
pause,  in  which  she  did  not  lower  her  eyes. 
44  I  did  not  say  so." 

Despite  her  anxiety,  an  amused  smile  hovered 
about  her  mouth,  as,  taking  the  prescription  from 
the  table,  she  replied,  — 

44  True,  it  is  a  professional  secret." 
He  bowed,  without  answering,  and  took  his  hat 
from  the  table. 

44  Monsieur,"  she  said,  impulsively,  "  I  have  to 
thank  you." 

44  No,"  he  replied,  as  he  stood  at  the  door ; 
"  you  have  yourself  said  it  is  a  professional  se 
cret." 

44  What  you  will  not  permit  me  to  say,  then,  I 
shall  feel,"  she  said,  softly.  "  One  cannot  be  a 
friend,  M.  Lande,  without  having  one." 


BUT  YET  A    WOMAN  87 


III. 

THE  morning  after  Roger's  visit  to  M.  Michel's 
salon  was  that  of  the  clinic  at  the  H6tel-Dieti  St. 
Luc.  It  was  that  part  of  his  practice  which  he 
most  loved,  for  in  it  he  was  most  master.  There 
was  none  of  the  preliminary  parleying,  none  of 
the  diplomacy,  indispensable  to  the  private  sick 
room. 

After  the  lecture  was  over  and  he  bad  walked 
through  the  wards,  he  retired,  as  usual,  into  what 
had  once  been  a  consulting-room,  but  which  he 
had  transformed  into  a  private  office  and  library. 
Here  the  assistants  made  their  reports  and  re 
ceived  his  instructions,  and  here  the  Mother 
Superior  sometimes  conferred  with  him  on  the 
details  of  the  hospital. 

Scenr  Ursule,  three  times  chosen  Superior,  was 
what  is  ordinarily  called  a  "remarkable"  woman. 
All  the  mechanism  of  this  vast  establishment  was 
under  her  Qye.  She  overlooked  everybody  and 
everything,  from  the  notary  who  managed  the 
property  owned  by  the  Order  in  the  city  down  to 
the  smallest  administrative  details  of  the  hospital 
proper. 

"One  would  suppose,"  said  Roger  to  a  friend 


38  BUT  YET  A    WOMAN. 

who   once    made   bis  morning   round   with   him, 
uthat    this   office   of    Superior   would   be    much 
sought  for.     In   the  world   this  would   naturally 
be  the  case.     On  the  contrary,  it  is  much  feared. 
It   is  an  honor,  if  you  will;   but   also  a  respon 
sibility.      Do   you   see   this   motto    written    over 
the  door  of  every  room  through  which  we  pass? 
GOD  ONLY.     It  contains  the  secret  of  these  sweet 
faces  unmarked  by  worldly  care  or  passion.     You 
know  well  enough  what  disease  and  suffering  will 
do  for  us  ;  yet,  for  the  five  years  in  which  I  have 
daily  passed  in  and  out  of  these  rooms,  amid  com 
plaints  and  impatience,  among  the  querulous  and 
the  bitter,  I  have  not  heard  from  these  women  a 
single  reproach,    or   seen   a  glance   of    vexation. 
You  do  not  live  one  such  day  in  your  own  family. 
But  what  do  they  care  for  all  these  trifles  which 
worry  us  !     For  them,  they  are  trifles.     This  life 
is  as  nothing,  and  <  the  pleasure  of  dying  without 
pain  is  worth  the   pain  of  living   without  pleas- 
ure.'     But  to  accomplish  this  miracle  there  is  ab 
solutely  nothing  adequate  short  of  the  faith  which 
does  not  stop  to  reason." 

On  this  morning  Soeur  Ursule  followed  him, 
after  the  clinic,  into  his  private  room. , 

She  was  nearly  old  enough  to  be  his  mother, 
yet  in  reality  appeared  as  young  as  he.  Her 
cheeks  were  like  the  south  side  of  a  peach,  and 
if  she  had  gray  hairs  they  were  hidden  under  her 
bandeau.  She  ordinarily  said  little,  but  her  sin* 


BUT  YET  A    WOMAN.  39 

plest  utterances  had  force  and  beauty,  for  they 
were  backed  by  her  own  personality.  One  always 
felt,  when  she  spoke,  as  when  one  sees  a  shadow, 
that  something  more  real  lies  behind  it. 

"Doctor,"  she  said,  entering  quietly  behind 
him,  and  closing  the  door,  "you  were  very  suc 
cessful  this  morning." 

Roger  himself  had  been  well  satisfied.  The 
two  operations  of  the  morning  had  passed  off 
well,  his  thoughts  had  been  clear,  and  his  words 
at  his  command,  as  the  applause  of  the  students 
had  testified. 

"Yes,  everything  went  off  well,"  he  said,  sit 
ting  down  at  his  table,  and  taking  up  the  reports 
awaiting  inspection. 

"  Moreover,  you  spoke  well,  doctor." 
"Ah!    you  think  so?  I  am  glad  of  it;"  and 
he  began  to  open  his  papers. 

"  How  much,  in  all  this,  did  you  think  of  the 
glory  of  God,  doctor?"  pursued  Sceur  Ursule, 
quietly. 

"  Pouf !  so  much  only,  I  'm  afraid,  sister,"  he 
said,  with  a  puff  of  imaginary  smoke  in  the  air. 

"  And  that  only  will  be  left  at  the  day  of  judg 
ment,"  she  replied,  calmly. 

Roger  had  learned  not  to  argue  with  the  Mother 
Superior.  Having  intuitions  for  premises,  her 
logic  was  irresistible.  "  You  are  a  bundle  of  fore 
gone  conclusions,"  he  once  said  to  her. 

"  I  wish  to  see  M.  Laferme,  if  he  is  in,"  he  said, 


40  BUT  YET  A    \VOMAN. 

looking  up  from  his  papers.     M.  Laferme  was  the 
first  assistant  surgeon. 

"  I  am  going  away  for  a  week.  Is  there  any 
thing  you  wish  to  say  to  me  ?  " 

"  No,  monsieur,  nothing,  — except  this  bill.  It 
is  from  Chatellier  ;  the  new  instrument  which  you 
used  this  morning.  It  seemed  to  me  that,  as  you 
said  it  was  to  be  very  rarely  used,  it  did  not  prop 
erly  belong  to  the  hospital  equipment." 

It  was  not  Roger's  first  experience  with  Sceur 
Ursule's  prudent  and  economic  management. 
"  True.     I  will  attend  to  it." 
"  Is  it  a  vacation  you  are  taking  ?  "  she  asked, 
her  hand  on  the  door. 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  I  may  call  it  so." 
"  It  is  the  first  for  a  long  time,  and  you  need 
it.     May  it  bring  you  happiness." 

"  Thanks,   sister.     And  I   know  you  mean   it. 
If  I  had  not  a  mother  already  "  — 
But  Soeur  Ursule  had  closed  the  door. 
The  explanation  of  Roger's  sudden  determina 
tion  was  a  note  from  M.  Michel. 

"  After  you  had  left  us,  last  night,"  it  ran,  "we 
formed  an  altogether  unexpected  project.  M. 
Le  Blanc  and  your  father  remained  with  us  after 
all  the  others  had  gone,  for  to-morrow  we  go  to 
Beauvais  for  a  month  or  more,  as  usual;  and  this 
year  Madame  Milevski  will  be  with  us.  Rdnde 
begged  M.  Lande  to  accompany  us,  and  he  con 
sented,  provided  M.  Le  Blanc  would  go  also.  TG, 


BUT  YET  A    WOMAN.  41 

oar  surprise  and  delight,  he  too  consented  —  for  a 
week.  It  was  now  my  turn  to  propose  something ; 
that  you  should  join  us.  Your  father  shook  his 
head  dubiously ;  still,  I  do  not  despair.  Further 
more,  let  me  add,  you  owe  a  duty  to  the  ladies, 
who  will  otherwise  be  in  the  hands  of  three  ante 
diluvians." 

Baptiste  handed  him  the  note  at  the  door  of  the 
hospital.  A  vacation  was  something  which  had 
never  occurred  to  him.  "After  all,  why  not?" 
he  said  to  himself.  "  It  will  make  me  glad  to  get 
back ;  "  and,  tearing  a  leaf  from  his  tablets,  he 
wrote,  — 

"  I  accept  with  pleasure.  But  I  must  make 
some  arrangements,  and  will  come  down  to 
morrow." 

The  following  day  he  was  walking  down  the 
platform  of  the  station,  in  search  of  an  empty 
compartment.  As  he  passed  the  long  line  of 
coaches,  he  perceived  in  one  of  them  the  red  face 
and  white  hair  of  Father  Le  Blanc. 

"  Ah,  what  good  fortune  ! "  the  latter  exclaimed, 
making  room  for  him. 

Roger  was  equally  pleased  at  the  prospect  of 
companionship.  He  had  made  a  favorable  im 
pression  upon  the  old  priest,  and  those  whom  we 
please  are  apt  to  please  us. 

"  I  thought  you  had  gone  already,  monsieur." 

"  Well,  well,  well !  How  pleasant  this  is  !  "  the 
priest  said,  folding  his  glasses  and  laying  them  in 


42  BUT   YET  A   WOMAN. 

the  book  he  was  reading.  "  You  understand,  I 
was  to  go  yesterday.  Beauvais,  —  I  thought  it 
was  in  the  west,  and  went  to  the  St.  Lazare  sta 
tion.  So  I  missed  our  friends  altogether." 

"  Then  you  have  never  been  to  Beauvais."  •< 

"  Never,  never  !  "  said  the  priest,  energetically. 
44  And  you?" 

"  Yes,  I  have  been  there,  but  not  for  pleasure. 
M.  Michel,  I  understand,  has  a  beautiful  house  on 
the  lake." 

"Ah!  there  is  a  lake?  Yes,  we  shall  enjoy 
ourselves,"  said  Father  Le  Blanc,  with  evident 
satisfaction.  "  We  have  a  charming  party." 

u,You  are  an  old  friend  of  M.  Michel's." 

"  Yes,  since  he  first  came  to  Paris.  That  is 
saying  much  and  little  :  much,  because  he  is  the 
most  agreeable  of  friends ;  little,  because  he 
makes  friends  of  every  one." 

"  That  is  an  art  few  possess." 

"  True.  Only  with  M.  Michel  it  is  not  an  art 
at  all.  That  art  by  which  one  never  disputes  the 
qualities  which  those  about  us  pretend  to  possess, 
and,  on  the  other  hand,  never  asserts  any  for  one's 
self,  like  other  arts,  requires  calculation  ;  and  M. 
Michel  has  none.  He  fulfills  its  conditions  with 
out  suspecting  it." 

"Pel-Imps  it  is  a  family  trait.  I  should  think 
M.  Mii-ht'l's  sister  possessed  the  art  also." 

"  Madame  Stephanie?  Oh,  she  is  quite  another 
person." 


BUT  YET  A   WOMAN.  43 

*4  Yet  she  appears  to  make  friends  easily." 
"  Yes,  but  in  a  different  way.  And  against 
what  odds!  "  said  Father  Le  Blanc,  lifting  up  his 
eyes  with  an  expressive  gesture  of  his  hands, 
44  For  woman  the  art  of  pleasing  is  a  kingdom  for 
which  all  her  sex  arc  pretenders;  and  as  for  ours, 
with  such  a  woman  as  Stephanie  Milevski,  one  is 
not  content  with  friendship." 

"  You  have  arraigned  the  whole  world  against 
her,"  said  Roger,  laughing. 

44  Yet  I  take  the  world  only  as  I  find  it.  Women 
make  friends  like  princes,  by  gaining  thrones  and 
dispensing  favors.  Only,  more  generous  than 
princes,  finally  they  surrender  their  thrones  also." 

"  And  M.  Milevski  ?     I  do  not  hear  of  him." 

"  M.  Milevski  is  dead.  M.  Michel's  father  mar 
ried,  late  in  life,  a  second  time,  in  Russia.  Oi 
this  marriage  Stephanie  was  the  only  child,  and 
to  M.  Michel  she  has  been  much  like  a  daughter. 
She  was  educated  here  in  Paris  under  his  super 
vision,  after  which  she  returned  to  Russia,  to  live 
with  her  mother  on  her  estates  near  Kief." 

44  And  her  mother  is  dead  ?  " 

44  Also.  But,  before  dying,  she  married  St& 
phanie  to  a  Russian  nobleman  of  the  new  school, 
who,  shortly  after,  became  compromised  with  the 
emperor,  and  was  exiled  to  Siberia." 

44  Then  rnadame  has  a  title  ?  " 

44  She  had  one,  but  it  was  forfeited  on  her  hus 
band's  exile.  It  is  said  that  the  estates  were  also 


44  BUT  YET  A   WOMAN. 

confiscated,  and  that  madame  was  forbidden  to 
reside  in  Russia.  On  receiving  the  Czar's  order, 
she  drove  alone,  in  the  dead  of  winter,  from  Kief 
to  St.  Petersburg,  with  a  single  servant.  Notwith 
standing  this  defiance,  she  obtained  an  audience, 
and  kept  her  estates.  There  is  a  story  that  the 
Czar  gave  her  a  cross  set  with  diamonds,  as  a 
token  of  his  good-will,  and  that  she  asked  per 
mission  to  have  the  cross  changed  to  a  dagger, 
4  lest  your  majesty's  clemency  make  me  forget  my 
husband,'  she  said.  The  Count  Milevski  was 
already  dead  ;  he  died  on  the  journey  to  Siberia. 
But  then,  we  cannot  believe  all  that  is  said. 
Still,"  added  M.  Le  Blanc,  reflectively,  "  I  would 
believe  many  things  of  her.  She  puzzles  me  ; 
and,  for  an  old  man,  that  is  saying  a  good  deal. 
The  young  look  into  women's  eyes  to  see  their 
own  reflections  ;  the  old,  to  see  the  woman." 

"You  make  a  very  agreeable  definition  of  age," 
said  Roger.  "  Most  men,  in  that  classification, 
die  young." 

Father  Le  Blanc  laughed,  which  he  did  with 
his  shoulders  and  trunk.  As  a  laugh  it  was  not 
infections,  but  conveyed  a  sense  of  satisfaction. 
As  Rdnde  said,  "  When  Father  Le  Blanc  laughs, 
I  feel  happy  myself." 

"Yes,  she  puzzles  me,"  he  resumed.  "Now, 
with  Mademoiselle  Rcnde  it  is  different.  She  is 
like  the  brook  at  its  source ;  one  sees  the  bottom. 
But  Stephanie !  "  and  he  shook  his  head,  —  "  it  is 


BUT   YET  A   WOMAN.  45 

the  river;  one  sees  the  reflection  of  everything* 
but  of  what  is  beneath  the  surface,  nothing  — 
except  that  there  is  something." 

Roger  was  not  averse  to  giving  M.  Le  Blanc  the 
reins  of  the  conversation;  partly  because  he  was 
interested,  and  partly  because  he  was  curious. 

"She  is  certainly  very  beautiful." 

"  Ah  ! "  said  the  priest,  holding  up  his  hands, 
"  and  what  beauty !  I  am  a  bit  of  an  artist,  M. 
Lande  ;  indeed,  I  was  an  artist  before  I  was  a 
priest.  I  will  tell  you  why  she  is  beautiful.  Do 
you  know  ?  " 

"I  have  not  studied  her,"  said  Roger. 

4  Well,  do  so.  It  will  repay  you.  Her  beauty 
is  not  faultless ;  that  is,  it  is  not  absolutely  reg 
ular, —  not  the  style  magnifique,  as  the  Greeks 
have  it.  They  knew  what  they  were  about,  those 
Greeks,  and  gave  such  to  the  gods  alone,  and  to 
certain  of  them  only.  Such  beauty  pleases  the 
judgment ;  it  is  too  correct  for  the  heart.  But  of 
Madame  Milevski,  my  friend,  the  judgment  must 
beware.  She  does  not  please  it ;  she  destroys  it," 
he  said,  with  a  little  shrug  :  "for  in  her  beauty  is 
that  factor  of  weakness  and  incompleteness  which 
touches  the  heart." 

"  She  does  not  appear  to  know  all  this.  At 
least,  no  one  would  suspect  her  of  it." 

"Nonsense!"  exclaimed  Father  Le  Blanc* 
"  There  is  a  spirit  which  whispers  in  the  ear  of 
every  beautiful  woman  as  she  leaves  Paradise. 


46  'BUT   YET  A    WOMAN. 

But,  as  you  say,  she  does  not  appear  to.  Now,  T 
will  prove  the  contrary.  Have  you  noticed  her 
dress  ?  " 

"  Hardly ;  except,  possibly,  that  it  was  sim 
ple." 

"Exactly,  but  designedly  so.  It  fulfills  the 
condition  of  a  perfect  dress,  which  is  only  an 
accessory,  having  little  value  in  itself,  covering 
what  it  does  not  conceal,  and  calling  attention  to 
that  which  it  embellishes.  But,  without  beauty, 
such  a  style  would  be  frightful !  What  are  all 
the  eccentricities  of  fashion  but  the  devices  to 
conceal  and  supplement  nature?  Madame  Ste 
phanie  flies  in  the  face  of  all  these  follies  :  first, 
because  she  knows  she  can  dare  to ;  and  second, 
because,  like  a  king  who  has  the  air  of  one,  she 
has  the  good  taste  to  dispense  with  her  decora 
tions." 

.  At  this  instant  the  train  emerged  from  the  for 
est,  disclosing  the  valley  of  the  Seine. 

"  Ah  !  la  belle  France  !  "  cried  Father  Le  Blano. 

Half-way  up  the  slope  of  the  hills,  the  view  of 
the  valley  below,  bathed  in  the  warm  sunshine, 
with  the  broad  river,  like  a  ribbon  of  gold  on  its 
green  bosom,  was  indeed  beautiful.  The  priest 
leaned  his  head  back  upon  the  cushion,  lost  in 
contemplation,  and  neither  spoke.  Presently 
the  little  worn  volume  on  his  knee  dropped  to 
the  floor.  Father  Le  Blanc  had  fallen  asleep. 

Roger  took  up  the  book,  and,  as  he  laid  it  on 


BUT  YET  A  WOMAN.  47 

the  seat,  glanced  at  its  title.  It  was  the  "  Phsedo  " 
of  Plato.  For  a  long  time  he  watched  the  placid 
breathing  of  his  reverend  companion.  "After 
learning  to  live,  we  have  no  longer  the  time,"  he 
thought.  "After  all,  in  learning  to  live,  wo  learn 
also  bow  to  die." 

Then  there  was  a  scream  from  the  engine,  a 
rush  of  steam,  a  babel  of  echoes  from  the  station 
buildings,  and  the  guard,  opening  the  door, 
shouted,  "  Beauvais  !  messieurs;  Beauvais  ! " 

"  Bless  me  !  "  exclaimed  Father  Le  Blanc,  "  we 
have  arrived  already  ?  I  owe  you  a  thousand 
apologies.  The  sun  being  full  in  my  face,  I  closed 
my  eyes,  and  must  have  slept  a  little." 

At  the  station  they  found  a  phaeton  and  Re- 
neVs  two  Breton  ponies. 

"  How  far  is  it  ?  "  the  priest  asked  the  driver. 

"  A  short  half  hour,  monsieur,"  said  the  latter, 
touching  his  cap. 

"  Ah,  that  will  be  delightful.  We  shall  see 
the  sunset." 

Beauvais  was  one  of  those  places  of  which  the 
traveler  sees  nothing.  The  railway,  after  thread 
ing  its  way  among  the  houses  of  the  lower  town, 
between  high  walls  of  stone  and  across  narrow 
streets,  ill-paved  and  unattractive,  plunges  at  once 
into  a  tunnel  through  the  promontory  which  juts 
out  into  the  lake,  as  if  in  contempt  of  the  beau 
ties  of  nature.  Rende's  ponies  dashed  down  one 
of  these  steep,  narrow  lanes  at  a  pace  which 


48  BUT  YET  A   WOMAN. 

caused  Father  Le  Blanc's  hand  to  tighten  on  his 
"Phaedo,"  and  took  the  wide  street  along  the  lake, 
called  the  Avenue  dti  Quai.  There  was  no  ripple 
on  the  blue  waters.  A  few  pleasure-boats  floated 
at  their  buoys,  their  silken  flags  hanging  idly,  and 
the  columns  of  thin  white  smoke  from  the  barges 
moored  at  the  quay  rose  undisturbed  by  any 
breath  of  air.  Beyond,  the  spur  of  Mont  St. 
Jean,  from  whose  wooded  sides  appeared  here  and 
there  the  red  roofs  and  awnings  of  half-hidden 
villas,  stood  out  like  a  challenge  into  the  lake, 
making  a  little  bay  for  the  boats  of  Beauvais. 
Imagine  an  arm,  bent;  the  closed  hand  is  the 
promontory  of  St.  Jean,  which  slopes  backward 
gently,  and  nestling  in  the  curve  of  the  elbow  is 
Beauvais. 

At  the  end  of  the  quay  the  ponies  turned  under 
the  trees  into  a  broad  avenue  leading  up  the  hill, 
which  they  took  gallantly.  On  one  side  was  a 
soft  earthen  road  for  cavaliers  ;  on  the  other  they 
passed,  now  and  then,  the  high  iron  gates  of  a 
villa.  A  sharp  turn  to  the  left  led  them  into  a 
wood  almost  black,  so  dense  were  the  trees,  and 
so  thick  the  foliage  overhead. 

"  A  little  slower,  my  friend,"  said  Father  Le 
Blanc ;  "  we  wish  to  enjoy  the  scenery." 

"  Oh,  there  is  no  danger,"  responded  the  dri 
ver  ;  "  we  are  there." 

A  gleam  of  light  ahead  broadened,  the  trees 
became  more  open,  and  suddenly,  almost  without 


BUT  YET  A   WOMAN.  49 

warning,  the  ponies  passed  through  a  gate  into 
the  glow  of  sunset,  circled  a  level  stretch  of  lawn 
dotted  with  trees,  and  stopped,  pawing  and  shak 
ing  their  shaggy  manes,  at  M.  Michel's  door. 

"  Doubtless  it  is  safe,"  said  the  priest,  alight 
ing,  "  nevertheless,  they  have  wicked  eyes,  those 
ponies." 

M.  Michel  was  on  the  steps,  and  hastened  down 
to  greet  them. 

"  Why,  my  good  friend,  it  is  you,  after  all," 
he  exclaimed,  taking  Father  Le  Blanc's  satchel  ; 
"  we  thought  you  had  abandoned  us.  And  you 
have  brought  M.  Lande  with  you." 

"  Faith,  it  was  not  I  who  brought  him,"  laughed 
the  priest ;  "  quite  the  reverse.  At  all  events,  we 
are  here,"  and  he  led  the  way  up  the  steps  with 
the  air  of  a  man  who  is  at  home  everywhere. 
Re'ne'e  met  him  at  the  door. 

"  We  had  given  you  up,"  she  said,  with  sur 
prise  and  pleasure  on  her  face.  "  I  have  been 
scolding  you  terribly.  How  did  it  happen? 
Where  were  you  yesterday  ?  "  Then  she  caught 
sight  of  Roger.  "  We  are  very  glad  you  have 
come,"  she  said,  naively ;  "  we  had  begun  to  have 
doubts  of  you  both." 

"Come,  now,"  interposed  M.  Michel,  "let  these 
travelers  rest ;  they  must  be  tired,  and  will  have 
barely  time  before  dinner.  Baptiste  !  take  these 
bags,  and  show  the  gentlemen  their  rooms." 

Going  up  the  stairs  together,    following   Bap- 


50  BUT  YET  A   WOMAN. 

tiste,  Father  Le  Blanc  made  a  little  explanation. 
44  She  obeys  her  impulses,  —  like  a  child,  —  then, 
you  see,  with  M.  Michel,  who  knows  so  much  and 
sees  so  little,  what  can  you  expect !  She  has  no 
mother." 

"  One  is  tempted  to  say,  so  much  the  better ! 
Roger  answered. 

While  dressing  for  dinner  he  had  an  opportu 
nity  for  reflection.     Except  for  the   fops,  as  M. 
Le  Blanc  would  say,  who  give  all  their  mind  to  it, 
dressing   soon    becomes  purely   mechanical,  —  an 
automatic  process  which  leaves  the  mind  a  rover. 
Like  those  of   most  workers,  his  reflections  took 
the  form  of  plans :  in  thinking,  he  matured  some 
thing.     But  here,  in  Beauvais,  sleeping  quietly  on 
the  lake,   with   all    his    professional    cares    forty 
miles  away,   he  could  think  only  of  M.  Michel, 
in  whose  house  he  was ;  of  Father  Le  Blanc,  who 
carried  "  Phiedo "  for  a  breviary ;  and  of  Rdnde 
and  Stephanie,  with  whom  he  was  to  dine.     Still, 
he  formed  plans.     To  talk  much  with  Father  Le 
Blanc,  whom  he  liked;  and  as  to  that  brook  and 
that  river  of  which  the  priest  had  spoken,  not  to 
listen  too  long  to  the  music  of  the  one  or  search 
too  curiously  into  the  depths  of  the  other  ;  thus 
making  plans  like  the  rest  of  the  world,  ignoring 
that  potent  factor,  self,  whose  value  remains  still 
unknown,  even  when,  after  three-score  years  and 
ten  of  vain  endeavor,  it  reenters  the  impenetrable 
darkness  whence  it  came. 


BUT  YET  A  WOMAN.  51 


IV. 

PERCHED  on  the  crest  of  Mont  St.  Jean,  M. 
Michel's  villa  overlooked  the  lake  on  three  sides. 
From  its  wide  veranda  one  might  almost  throw  a 
stone  into  the  waters  at  the  base  of  the  cliff,  where 
a  narrow  beach  received  the  miniature  surf  which 
the  southeast  wind  dashed  upon  its  slope  of  peb 
bles.  Wreathed  in  vines,  the  posts  and  arches  of 
this  veranda  formed  so  many  frames  for  the  land 
scape. 

"  This  is  my  picture  gallery,"  said  M.  Michel 
to  his  guests,  who  had  adjourned,  after  dinner,  to 
the  piazza.  "  Why  should  I  pay  twenty  thou 
sand  francs  for  a  Corot  or  a  Bouguereau,  when  I 
have  hers  these  pictures  which  never  need  retouch 
ing,  and  *vhich  change  with  every  passing  cloud  ; " 
and  while  he  was  speaking,  the  shadow  of  a  great 
cloud,  like  some  monster  of  the  lake,  moved  in 
the  glitter  of  the  moonlit  waves  over  its  surface. 

Leaning  on  the  railing,  Renee  stood  under  one 
of  the  arches,  the  shadows  of  the  vines  over  her. 

44  You  have  no  softer  web  of  lace,  mademoiselle, 
than  the  moonlight  makes  for  you,"  Roger  said, 
joining  her. 

"  Yes,  how  pretty  it  is,"  answered  Renee,  look- 


52  BUT  YET  A  WOMAN. 

ing  down  on  the  tracery  it  bad  woven  over  her 
dress.  "  Do  you  see  that  black  tuft  of  trees,  M. 
Lande,  just  beyond  that  point  of  land  where  the 
boat  is  ?  " 

"  It  looks  to  me  like  a  ruin." 

"  Yes,  it  is  a  ruin.  You  can  see  the  gray  tower 
very  plainly  in  the  sunlight ;  but  it  is  so  buried 
in  the  foliage,  I  did  not  think  you  could  distin 
guish  it  now.  We  often  go  and  take  dinner 
there." 

"  Ah  !     Then  it  is  inhabited." 

"  No,  we  take  our  dinner  with  us.  It  is  a  real 
ruin,  and  it  has  a  real  story,  which  makes  it  more 
interesting." 

"Is  it  too  long  a  story  to  ask  you  to  repeat, 
mademoiselle  ?  " 

"It  is  not  so  very  long,  but  it  is  very  romantic." 

"  Then  I  am  the  more  interested  to  hear  it." 

"  You  are  ? "  she  said,  giving  him  a  look  of 
grave  surprise,  u  I  did  not  think  so." 

"  You  did  not  think  so  ?     Why  ?  " 

"  I  hardly  know  why,"  Renee  said,  a  little 
shyly.  "  I  suppose  I  did  not  think  you  were  a 
very  romantic  person,"  she  added,  laughing.  "I 
read  the  story  in  an  M  book  I  found  in  my  un 
cle's  library.  It  was  such  a  surprise  to  me  to  think 
that  it  had  all  happened  here,  so  near  to  us.  Our 
own  lives  seern  very  commonplace  beside  those  of 
such  a  story." 

"  Except  as  such  lives,  when  brought  so  close 
to  ours,  remind  us  of  what  is  possible  for  us  all." 


BUT  YET  A  WOMAN.  53 

"  I  carried  the  book  to  my  uncle,  and  read  the 
story  aloud  to  him.  He  was  as  still  as  a  mouse," 
said  Renee,  smiling.  "But  what  do  you  think  he 
said  after  I  had  finished  ?  k  Thank  you,  my  child, 
it  is  very  amusing.' ' 

"  Then  you  think  it  would  only  amuse  me  ? 
Your  conclusion  rests  on  a  premise  which  I  should 
dispute." 

"  What  premise  ?  " 

"  That  you  know  me  better  than  you  do." 

"  We  often  know  people  very  well,  whom,  in 
the  ordinary  sense,  we  do  not  know  at  all,"  Renee 
answered,  straightforwardly.  "  You  make  a  cer 
tain  impression  on  me,  as  every  one  else  does, 
without  any  will  of  my  own,  —  that  is  all." 

"  Then  it  is  my  misfortune  to  have  made  a 
wrong  one,"  said  Roger;  "but  I  can  readily  dis 
abuse  you." 

"Readily?     How?" 

"  By  telling  you,  though  you  have  not  told  me 
this  story,  why  I  should  be  interested  in  it,  and 
—  and  why  you  are." 

"  You  think  it  is  some  romantic  folly,"  said 
Re'ne'e,  resentfully. 

"  I  do  not  know  what  it  is  ;  but  certainly  I 
think  better  things  of  you  than  you  do  of  me." 

"  Well,  then,  disabuse  me.     I  am  waiting." 

"Now  you  are  disposed  to.  laugh  at  me,  while 
I,  on  the  contrary,  am  very  serious,"  said  Roger. 
u  Every  day,  almost,  in  my  profession,  I  read 


54  BUT   YET  A  WOMAN. 

such  stories  as  you  find  in  the  old  book.  Th3 
characters  do  not  live  in  castles,  and  the  heroes 
are  not  knights,  but  the  drama  is  the  same ;  the 
accessories  only  differ.  And  these  accessories,  ot 
time,  and  place,  and  manners,  they  are  only  the 
frame  of  the  picture ;  it  is  the  vulgar  eye  that  is 
attracted  by  them  solely.  How  many  times,  as  I 
have  set  out  on  my  morning  visits  or  entered  the 
door  of  the  HOtel-Dieu  St.  Luc,  I  have  wished 
that  I  had  some  poet  with  me,  who  should  strip 
all  that  I  was  about  to  see  of  what  was  local  and 
accidental,  and  write  anew  the  story  of  human 
suffering  and  endurance.  Besides  the  inheritance 
of  suffering,  transmitted  from  age  to  age,  there  is 
another,  —  the  capacity  to  suffer.  Is  not  the  con 
sciousness  of  this  capacity  the  secret  of  your  in 
terest  in  the  story  of  the  ruin  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  suffer." 

"  No,  not  for  the  sake  of  suffering ;  but,  as 
Lamennais  says,  '  there  is  something  wanting  to 
the  perfect  life,  which  does  not  finish  on  the  field 
of  battle,  the  scaffold,  or  in  prison.'  And  when 
we  read  of  such  lives,  we  feel  we  are  in  the  line 
of  succession  ;  the  consciousness  of  our  own  pow 
ers  fills  us  with  a  nameless  longing ;  we  rebel 
against  a  life  which  offers  us  no  opportunities  to 
die,  to  suffer,  to  be  silent,  for  that  love  of  kindred, 
country,  or  God,  which  redeems  us.  I  know  this 
enthusiasm  has  a  morbid  side  ;  but  it  commands 
sympathy,  for  its  source  is  in  the  recognition  of 


BUT  YET  A  WOMAN.  55 

our  own  nobility,  and  the  sublime  consciousness 
that  we  are  all  eldest  sons  in  the  heritage  of  hu 
manity,  in  its  virtues  as  well  as  its  follies." 

"  How  strange  jou  are,"  said  Ren^e,  looking 
at  him. 

"  Why  ?     Is  not  what  I  have  said  true  ?  " 

"  That  makes  it  all  the  stranger." 

"  I  do  not  understand  you." 

"  I  mean,  as  I  said  before,  that  you  make  a  cer 
tain  impression  upon  me.  It  is  not  necessary  for 
one  to  speak  to  make  a  declaration  of  faith ;  there 
is  the  manner,  the  tone,  the  not  speaking,  which 
are  more  eloquent  still.  You  surprise  me,  because 
you  contradict  that  general  impression.  I  don't 
know  how  to  explain  myself  better  ;  and  I  can 
not,  without  telling  tales,  —  that  is,  without  gos 
siping." 

"  Well,  then,  let  us  gossip  a  little." 

"  You  contradict  yourself,"  Rene*e  said,  after  a 
pause.  "  M.  Lande  says  that  you  are  altogether 
absorbed  in  your  profession.  Yet  you  leave  it  sud 
denly,  for  no  reason  whatever." 

"  For  no  reason,  mademoiselle  ?  " 

44  For  a  reason  you  have  never  tolerated  before 
Sis  sufficient.  You  astonished  M.  Lande  by  ac 
cepting  our  invitation.  Then,  at  Paris,  at  my 
uncle's,  you  say  sharp  things,  like  M.  de  Marzac, 
which  do  not  at  all  agree  with  what  you  have 
been  telling  me.  I  had  begun  to  think  you  were 
very  cynical." 


56  BUT   YET  A   WOMAN. 

"It  is  possible  to  have  very  little  respect  for 
individuals,  and  at  the  same  time  to  build  a  creed 
on  faith  in  humanity,"  said  Roger.  "  Men  are 
like  the  planets ;  as  parts  of  a  system  they  behave 
themselves  well  enough,  but  any  one  of  them, 
freed  from  the  restraints  of  all  the  others,  would 
rush  to  destruction.  But  I  interrupt  you." 

"  M.  Lande  says  that  you  hate  society,  and 
Father  Le  Blanc  that  you  were  made  for  it." 

"  I  might  admit  them  both  right  without  con 
tradiction  ;  but  what  do  you  say,  mademoiselle  ?  " 

"  How  should  I  know  ?  " 

"  Well,  is  there  anything  more?  " 

"  Oh,  a  great  deal,"  said  Rdnde,  laughing.  "  I 
heard  some  one  say  that  you  were  cold  "  — 

"Yes,  I  know  her." 

"  And  another,  that  you  had  no  religion  "  — 

"  Him,  also,"  said  Roger. 

"  But  Sceur  Ursule  says  quite  contrary  things 
of  you." 

"  Then  you  know  Soeur  Ursule." 

"  Yes,  indeed,  very  well,  M.  Lande.  You  know 
when  I  go  back  to  Paris,  in  the  autumn,  I  am 
going  to  enter  the  Congregation  of  St.  Luc." 

"  You,  mademoiselle !  "  Roger  cried,  with  a  sud 
den  movement  towards  her,  as  if  he  were  about 
to  seize  her  by  both  wrists,  "  what  is  M.  MicheJ 
thinking  of  ?  " 

"Of  my  wishes  and  my  happiness,"  she  an 
swered,  quietly. 


BUT  YET  A   WOMAN.  57 

"  But  I  cannot-  believe  it,"  he  said,  impatiently. 
"  Have  you  reflected  ?     Have  you  thought  "  — 
"  What  questions  you  are  asking,  M.  Lande." 
44  True !     I  acknowledge  it.     But  you   do   not 
understand,  you  do  not  know  what  I  do." 

"  Your  father  once  told  us  you  had  the  greatest 
reverence  for  the  Sisters  of  St.  Luc.  Then  I  have 
five  years  of  novitiate  in  which  to  learn  all  those 
things  which  you  know  and  of  which  I  am  igno 
rant,  and  —  and  to  know  myself  better." 

Standing  opposite  her,  Roger  was  looking 
straight  into  her  face.  It  was  a  searching  look, 
and  for  the  first  time  ReneVs  eyes  avoided  his, 
fend  fell. 

"It  is  a  sublime  folly  !"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of 
mingled  weariness  and  protest. 

^"Did  I  not  say  rightly  you  were  inconsistent?  " 
said  Rende,  looking  up  again.  "  You  bring  us 
back  to  what  we  were  speaking  of.  I  see  lives  of 
sacrifice  and  devotion,  which  I  wish  to  emulate. 
I  feel  that  very  capacity  to  endure  of  which  you 
spoke,  and  which  you  just  called  sublime,  without 
adding  that  it  was  folly  ;  and  I  wish  to  consecrate 
that  endurance  to  the  highest  service." 

"  Mademoiselle,  you  have  the  right  to  silence 
me,  for  I  have  none  to  criticise  or  to  deter  you. 
Nevertheless,  understand  me,  for  I  am  not  incon 
sistent.  If,  like  the  Sisters  of  St.  Luc,  you  believe 
this  life  was  given  us  to  abjure,  you  are  right. 
Forget  it,  abjure  it,  shut  your  eyes  to  all  it  holds, 


58  BUT  YET  A  WOMAN. 

and  fix  them  only  upon  the  world  to  come.  But 
if,  on  the  other  hand,  it  be  given  us,  not  to  re 
nounce,  but  to  conquer  "  — 

•'  But,  M.  Lande,"  interrupted  Rcnde,  "  have 
you  ever  seen  those  who  have  better  conquered 
self  and  the  world  than  the  Sisters  of  St.  Luc?  " 

"It  is  not  conquest;  it  is  crucifixion.  Strong 
character,  like  a  strong  muscle,  comes  from  activ 
ity,  from  warfare,  not  from  retreat." 

"  You  live  in  a  world  wider  than  mine  ;  I  do  not 
pretend  to  know  it.  But  mine,  if  narrower,  is  the 
same.  I  think  it  would  be  the  same  in  the  clois 
ters  of  St.  Luc,  and  that  there,  also,  would  be  op 
portunity  for  conquest.  Do  you  think  that,  in  the 
world  you  know,  one  can  better  prepare  for  the 
world  to  come  than  in  those  cloisters  ?  " 

"  Mademoiselle,"  said  Roger,  "  we  use  the  same 
words  and  phrases,  but  with  different  meanings  ; 
so  different  that  it  seems  hopeless  for  me  to  at 
tempt  the  reconciliation  which  I  believe  is  possi 
ble.  For  your  future  world,  I  answer,  no  —  for 
mine,  yes.  You  remind  me  of  Soeur  Ursule. 
She  talks  of  renouncing  this  life,  of  the  life  to 
come,  of  absorption  in  God ;  and  I,  too,  use  the 
same  phrases,  while  our  thoughts  are  far  different. 
Of  that  life  to  come,  of  which  she  speaks,  I,  per 
haps,  know  less  than  she;  but,  whatever  it  may 
be,  I  shall  enter  it  myself,  and  not  another,  else 
for  me  it  has  no  personal  interest.  I  do  not 
understand  Soeur  Ursule's  transformation.  The 


BUT  YET  A  WOMAN.  59 

worm,  in  becoming  the  butterfly,  loses  its  iden 
tity.  The  moment  after,  as  the  moment  before, 
my  death,  I  shall  be  I,  with  such  strength  after 
as  before,  and  with  such  weakness,  —  courageous 
then,  as  now,  by  subduing  fear ;  knowing  then 
the  pleasures  of  duty,  as  here,  by  sacrifice;  gener 
ous  then  only  as  now,  by  conquering  selfishness, 
and  winning  victories  only  by  fighting  battles. 
Goodness  and  virtue !  I  cannot  value  nor  com 
prehend  them,  if  they  cost  nothing.  Costing 
nothing,  they  disappear  altogether.  Without  the 
struggle  and  temptation  of  Gethsemane,  Calvary 
itself  would  have  no  meaning.  Give  me  some 
other  view  of  this  life  to  come,  mademoiselle.  I 
will  not  ask  to  understand  it,  but  only  to  conceive 
of  it.  But  as  it  is,  I  wish  to  enter  it  a  man,  not 
an  anchorite  ;  and  in  it  I  expect  to  be  strong  only 
as  I  conquer  weakness,  and  able  to  grow  only  as 
there  is  weakness  to  conquer." 

"  And  heaven  ?  "  said  Rene'e. 

"  When  you  say  heaven,  it  is  as  if  you  said 
eternity.  I  admit  it,  but  I  do  not  comprehend  it. 
It  is  the  goal ;  but,  when  reached,  it  is  the  end  of 
every  thing. " 

"  And  I  wish  it  to  be  the  beginning,"  said  Re- 
ne'e,  looking  over  the  lake,  as  if  she  would  dis 
cover  the  everlasting  hills  on  its  farther  shore. 
Her  voice  had  a  troubled  tone  in  it.  Was  it 
moonlight  or  tears  which  Roger  saw  in  her  eyes  ? 

"  Re'ne'e !  "  said  M.  Michel,  "  we  are  going  in. 


60  BUT  YET  A  WOMAN. 

There  is  a  dew  to-night,  and  we  wish  you  to  make 
a  game  of  cards  with  us." 

"  Not  to-night,  uncle.     I  am  tired." 

44  Ah,  true  !  "  said  this  worthy  man,  "  you  are 
tired.  Well,  rest  yourself,  and  sleep  well,  for  to 
morrow  we  shall  be  busy." 

But  Re'ne'e  lay  awake  a  long  time  that  night, 
thinking,  within  the  white  folds  of  her  bed-cur 
tains,  which,  in  a  serious  pleasantry,  she  used  to 
call  her  cell.  And  this  novice-to-be  fell  asleep, 
saying,  "  I  know  him  better  than  they  all." 

When  Roger  approached  Re'ne'e  on  the  piazza, 
for  what  proved  to  be  the  longest  talk  they  had 
ever  had  together,  it  was  with  that  feeling,  "  here 
is  some  one  whom  I  shall  like,  and  who  is  worth 
knowing."  Yet  he  had  not  expected  to  entev  at 
once  upon  a  subject  so  personal,  or,  at  least,  so 
serious.  There  is  usually  an  ascent,  more  or  less 
difficult,  more  or  less  obstructed  with  banalitfo, 
which  must  be  climbed  before  one  reaches  the 
upper  levels  of  conversation  upon  which  Re'ne'e 
had  entered  so  naively.  She  had  no  fund  of 
empty  phrases,  none  of  the  current  coin  of  soci 
ety;  and,  if  she  was  not  easily  embarrassed,  it 
was  because  one  had  intuitively  the  good  sense 
not  to  compliment  her.  When  she  spoke,  her 
words  were  the  exact  reflection  of  herself  ,•  there 
was  no  doubt  of  their  sincerity. 

From  the  very  first,  this  young  face  in  the  cor 
ner  of  M.  Michel's  salon  had  interested  him.  As 


BUT   YET  A    WOMAN.  61 

he  talked  with  her  uncle  before  the  fire,  he  looked 
over  at  times  to  find  those  gray  eyes,  at  once  so 
grave  and  so  sweet,  and  to  see  that  smile  which 
came  and  went  as  a  ripple  passes  over  still  water, 
while  she  turned  the  leaves  of  her  book.  But  if 
he  was  interested  in  Re*nee,  he  had  not  then  be 
gun  to  wonder  what  she  thought  of  him.  Not 
until  she  told  him  so  quietly  of  her  approaching 
novitiate,  did  he  say  to  himself,  with  that  secret 
annoyance  which  betrayed  him,  "  she  tells  me  as 
if  it  would  give  me  pleasure."  When  he  found 
himself  alone  in  his  room,  that  evening,  demon 
strating  to  an  imaginary  M.  Michel  the  unwisdom 
of  yielding  to  her  wishes,  and  finding  fault  with 
the  world  in  general  for  its  topsy-turvy  condition, 
ReneVs  face,  in  the  black  veil  and  white  bandeau 
of  the  Sisters  of  St.  Luc,  came  so  often  before  his 
eyes,  that  it  was  not  easy  to  believe  his  argument 
altogether  abstract  and  impersonal.  And  when 
he  woke  the  next  morning,  it  was  with  the  con 
sciousness  of  something  on  his  mind  which  would 
not  keep  the  truce  of  silence  and  forgetfulness 
he  had  resolved  upon. 

The  dew  was  still  on  the  leaves,  when,  after 
finding  the  salon  empty,  he  stepped  out  upon  the 
piazza.  It  was  not  Renee,  but  Father  Le  Blanc, 
who  stood  under  the  arches. 

"  Bonjour,  M.  Lande,"  he  said.  "  It  seems  we 
two  are  the  early  risers." 

"  Are  we  the  first  ?  "  asked  Roger. 


62  BUT  YET  A    WOMAN. 

"  Yes,  it  seems  so.     Habit  is  incorrigible.     But 
what  a  reward  we  have!  "  said  Father  Le  Blanc, 
with  a  gesture  which  took  in    the  whole   scene. 
"Nature  is  like  a  woman.     In  the  morning  she  is 
fresh  from  her  bath,  at  noon  she  is  in  her  work 
ing  dress,  and  at  night  she  wears  her  jewels.     As 
for  me,  I  like  them  both  best  in  the  morning." 
As  he  spoke,  Baptiste  appeared  at  the  door. 
"  Will  you  have  breakfast  here,  messieurs?  " 
"  Nothing  could  be  better.      That  is  "  —  turn^ 
Ing  to  Roger. 

"Oh,  by  all  means,"  he  said;  and  on  a  light 
wicker  table  was  soon  laid  a  white  cloth,  fresh 
strawberries  with  creme  St.  Gervais,  rolls  from  the 
morning's  baking,  and  two  fragrant  cups  of  coffee. 
•*  We  are  altogether  too  early,  I  fear,"  said  the 
priest  to  Baptiste.  "  At  what  time  does  M.  Mi 
chel  breakfast  in  the  country?" 

"  He  has  his  coffee  at  six,  monsieur." 
"Diantre!  at  six  !  " 

"  And  breakfast  at  ten.     He  keeps  exactly  the 
same  hours  as  at  Paris." 

"  The  same  as  at  Paris  I     Then  he  is  now  writ- 


ing9" 


"Yes,  monsieur." 

"  M.  Michel  is  writing  a  book,  is  he  not?"  asked 
Roger. 

"  Yes,  he  is  writing  a  book." 

Roger  had  asked  the  question  with  the  thought 
•hat  Father  Le  Blanc  would  give  him  some  infor- 


BUT   YET  A    WOMAN.  63 

mation  about  M.  Michel's  labors,  of  which  he  was 
ashamed  to  be  ignorant ;  bufc  the  priest's  answer 
seemed  to  imply  a  profound  secret.  Looking  up 
inquiringly,  Roger  caught  his  eye,  which  twinkled 
with  amusement. 

"  Ma  foi !  "  he  laughed,  "  I  know  no  more  than 
you.  It  is  about  Egypt.  They  say,  when  he 
took  the  first  volume  to  the  Librarie  Bailliere,  the 
publisher  said  to  him,  '  M.  Michel,  I  have  an 

idea.  Take  your  MSS.  to  M.  X ;  he  is  the 

only  man  who  can  read  your  book,  and  you  will 
thus  save  yourself  the  trouble  of  having  to  pub 
lish  it.'" 

Roger  laughed.  There  was  a  vein  of  kindly 
humor  in  the  priest's  composition  which  endeared 
him  to  every  one  ;  and,  as  he  knew  him  better, 
the  courtesy  which  distinguished  him  mellowed 
into  a  sort  of  comradeship. 

"  I  believe  I  could  sit  on  this  piazza  all  my 
life,"  said  the  priest,  helping  himself  to  the  straw 
berries. 

"  You  would  soon  begin  to  miss  your  daily 
work." 

"  True  enough ;  I  shall  miss  that  long  after  I 
can  no  longer  do  it.  Work  is  a  great  blessing," 
—  passing  the  cream  to  Roger,  —  "after  evil 
came  into  the  world,  work  was  given  as  an  anti 
dote,  not  a  punishment.  The  punishment  is  pain, 
a  rascal  whom  I  feel  even  now  in  the  joints  of  my 
limbs,"  said  Father  Le  Blanc,  drawing  his  soutane 


64  BUT  YET  A   WOMAN. 

elose  over  his  knees,  and  finishing  his  sentence 
with  a  shake  of  the  head.  "  Better  there  than 
in  the  heart,"  he  added.  His  heart  evidently 
troubled  him  little  then,  as  he  finished  his  coffee 
with  a  smack  of  satisfaction. 

After  breakfast  he  proposed  a  walk  down  the 
path  to  the  lake.  Winding  among  the  trees, 
broken  now  and  then  by  irregular  flights  of  stone 
steps,  this  path  was  a  succession  of  sudden  views 
at  different  heights,  till,  turning  at  last  the  steep 
base  of  the  cliff  by  a  long  detour,  it  opened  from 
under  a  thicket  of  acacias,  upon  the  beach.  The 
sun,  now  far  above  the  horizon,  had  dissipated 
the  morning  mist,  of  which  stray  thin  remnants 
only  hovered  here  and  there  in  the  curves  of  the 
shore.  Father  Le  Blanc  sat  down  on  a  wooden 
bench  under  the  projecting  rock,  overhung  with 
mosses  and  glistening  myrtles. 

The  sudden  view  was  so  beautiful  that  neither 
felt  the  necessity  of  speaking.  To  break  the 
peace  of  that  summer  morning  required  an  effort, 
as  if  one  feared  the  ripple  of  the  beach,  the  songs 
of  the  birds,  and  the  dripping  of  the  dew  from 
the  leaves,  would  all  cease  at  the  sound  of  one's 
voice.  On  the  farther  shore  Roger  saw  the  bro 
ken  masses  of  the  ruin  just  above  the  rounded 
outlines  of  the  forest.  Gray  and  sombre  amid  the 
green  foliage,  under  the  blue  sky,  it  seemed  to 
him  almost  a  prison  into  which  Rcnde  was  about 
to  enter. 


BUT  YET  A    WOMAN.  65 

"  I  see  only  the  back  of  your  bead,  still  I  fancy 
tbere  is  speculation  in  your  eyes,  M.  Lande,"  said 
his  companion,  at  last. 

"  I  was  thinking,  M.  Le  Blanc,"  replied  Roger, 
turning  around,  "of  what  Mademoiselle  Rdnee 
said  to  me  last  night." 

"  Ah ! "  said  the  priest,  with  a  quick  look, 
"  and  what  did  she  tell  you  ?  " 

"  That  she  was  about  to  enter  the  Congrega 
tion  of  St.  Luc,"  answered  Roger,  looking  in 
tently  at  his  companion. 

"  Yes,  it  is  an  old  project." 

"  And  you  approve  of  it  ?  " 

"My  approval  has  not  been  asked,  —  that  is, 
formally." 

"  Yet  you  are  an  old  family  friend." 

"True,"  said  Father  Le  Blanc;  and  he  might 
have  added,  "  older  than  you,"  thought  Roger  to 
himself.  Still  he  persisted. 

"  She  is  very  young  to  take  such  a  step ;  very 
young,  and  very  ignorant.'* 

"She  has  a  long  time ;  there  is  a  long  novi 
tiate." 

"  But  that  novitiate  is  passed  altogether  under 
such  influences  as  to  leave  no  real  choice.  It 
would  have  only  one  result." 

Father  Le  Blanc  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Then,  as  to  ignorance,"  he  continued,  without 
noticing   the  interruption,  "  Mademoiselle  Rene'e 
is  innocent,  bub  innocence  is  not  ignorance.     Ig 
5 


BUT  YET  A    WOMAN. 

ngrance,  if  you  will,  of  the  lesser  and  worser 
things  of  life  ;  but  such  ignorance  is  often  only 
one  side  of  a  profound  knowledge." 

"  When  I  said  ignorant,  I  meant  ignorant  of 
herself,  of  her  own  nature,  capacities,  and  heart." 

"  Oh  !  if  one  were  to  wait  for  that  reason,  there 
would  be  no  Sisters  —  and  no  doctors.  In  all 
choice  of  this  kind  there  is  an  element  of  uncer 
tainty." 

"Which,  if  action  is  not  forced  upon  us,  and 
events  give  us  time,  is  a  reason  for  prudence  and 
deliberation." 

"  Exactly  so.  I  admit  it.  But  here  is  a  case, 
a  special  one,  —  we  are  not  talking  generalities. 
You  counsel  reflection  and  prudence.  Good  !  But 
this  has  a  limit.  Mademoiselle  has  this  plan  for 
years,  though  she  has  but  recently  announced  it; 
and  she  is  twenty.  How  much  more  time  do  you 
counsel  for  her?  " 

"  Knowledge  comes  from  experience,  not  time 
alone,"  replied  Roger.  "  Twenty  years  with  M. 
Michel,  of  this  strange,  quiet  life,  will  not  dis 
close  to  the  heart  of  a  young  girl  what  the  woman 
will  be.  She  is  a  young  plant,  growing  alone  in  a 
secluded  garden.  Such  a  life  tells  her,  perhaps, 
that  she  has  needs,  but  is  not  able  to  name  them. 
It  is  precisely  this  ignorance  which  is  dangerous, 
when,  conscious  only  that  something  is  lacking, 
she  listens  to  the  first  voice  that  breaks  the 
silence,  or  follows  the  delusions  of  her  own  imag 
ination." 


BUT  YET  A   WOMAN.  67 

The  priest  made  no  answer,  though  he  did  not 
have  the  appearance  of  one  who  was  convinced. 

"  Shall  we  go  in  ?  "  he  said,  presently. 

Half-way  up  the  path  he  stopped,  and,  turning, 
laid  his  hand  on  Roger's  shoulder. 

"  My  son,  this  first  voice  that  speaks  to  made 
moiselle  seems  to  her  a  voice  from  heaven.  Let 
us  wait  a  while  patiently,  lest,  perchance,  we  strive 
against  God." 

Long  afterwards  Roger  remembered  these  words, 
and  thought  of  Father  Le  Blanc's  delicate  use  of 
the  plural. 

Had  he  been  accused  of  loving  Mademoiselle 
Re'ne'e  already,  he  would  probably  have  resented 
the  charge  energetically,  and,  in  so  doing,  would 
have  made  a  confession.  At  the  mere  thought  of 
her,  as  she  stood  a  picture  in  one  of  M.  Michel's 
frames,  the  world  seemed  larger  to  him.  Her  face 
was  not  more  fair,  her  eyes  no  clearer,  than  many 
another's ;  and  certainly  it  would  not  have  been 
to  this  little  girl,  who  said,  "  how  pretty  it  is  !  " 
so  simply,  that  Roger  Lande  would  have  gone  for 
the  secrets  of  life.  Yet  she  held  in  her  hand  the 
key  to  that  world  which  he  thought  to  ignore,  — 
the  world  of  a  woman's  love  and  dreams.  What 
a  mission  has  this  woman  who  meets  us  unfore 
seen,  and  who,  standing  in  our  narrow  pathway, 
silent,  with  her  finger  on  her  lips,  yet  says,  "  Lo ! 
all  things  are  made  new." 

Nature  suffers  no  infringement  of  her  laws  with 


68  BUT  YET  A    WOMAN. 

impunity.  Resolute  and  ambitious,  this  man  will 
check  the  outward  flow  of  his  feelings,  and  isolate 
himself  from  human  sympathy.  Straightway  she 
curses  him  with  vanity,  and  in  his  prudence  even 
he  becomes  a  slave  to  his  own  illusions  !  Contact 
with  his  fellows  is  the  source  of  his  life,  and  with 
out  it  self-dependence  becomes  self-consumption. 
This  contact  is  the  moment  of  generation,  when 
the  circuit  closes  and  the  sparks  appear. 

Old  M.  Lande,  at  the  fireside  of  the  Rue  du 
Bac,  was  a  beggar  for  this  food  of  life.  Onoe  he 
said  to  Roger,  — 

•"  You  are  going  to  make  your  profession,  and 
what  is  incident  to  it,  everything  "  — 

"  Yes." 

"  You  will  make  a  mistake,  —  I  have  tried  it. 
There  is  no  mistress  who  will  compensate  for  soli 
tude.  I  say  I  have  tried  it.  Music !  the  divine 
priestess  whose  lyre  echoes  the  harmonies  of 
heaven,  is  sufficient !  But,  no  !  The  revelation  is 
fragmentary,  and,  in  satisfying,  it  also  saddens. 
She  brings  melody  into  life,  but  cannot  make  life 
melodious.  What,  then,  will  you  expect,  if  I 
have  found  her  wanting  ?  " 

Poor  M.  Lande !  Nothing  daunted  by  experi 
ence,  for  he  knew  all  the  while  that  somewhere  in 
the  wide  world  was  one  who,  God  willing,  might 
have  made  out  of  the  broken  sounds  of  life  a 
song,  and  of  life  itself  a  melody. 


BUT  YET  A  WOMAN. 


V. 

WHEN  M.  Michel  was  selected  as  the  guardian 
of  his  young  step-sister,  and  given  to  Rene'e  as 
a  substitute  for  her  natural  parents,  Providence 
moved  in  one  of  those  mysterious  ways  which  no 
one  understands,  and  which,  in  this  case,  some 
people  even  openly  called  in  question. 

Yet  M.  Michel  least  of  all  was  impressed  by  his 
new  responsibilities.  In  the  case  of  Stephanie  this 
responsibility  was  somewhat  less  direct,  and  was 
mainly  limited  to  the  selection  of  a  school  at 
which  she  was  to  receive  her  French  education. 
When,  every  month,  he  had  visited  his  young  sis 
ter  at  the  Convent  of  Notre  Dame,  and  had  re 
ceived  the  report  of  the  Superior,  he  wrote  to 
madame  at  Kief  that  "  her  daughter  was  all  that 
could  be  desired,"  as  if  this  was  a  matter  of 
course,  and  there  was  nothing  to  be  thankful  for. 

As  for  Renee,  when  his  brother  besought  his 
protection  for  his  only  child,  he  simply  went  to 
Lyons  to  bring  her  to  Paris,  and  requested  Bap- 
tiste  to  find  a  maid  for  mademoiselle. 

"  If  he  had  charge  of  the  MSS.  in  the  National 
Library,"  said  Madame  Valfort,  one  of  his  friends, 


70  BUT  YET  A    WOMAN. 

"  he  would  not  close  his  eyes  out  of  the  room." 
For  she  did  not  share  M.  Michel's  optimism. 

Fortunately  Re'ne'e   did    not   belie  the  wisdom 
of  Providence.     There   was   more  truth  than  M 
Michel  suspected  in  his  oft-repeated  remark,  "  You 
are  a  good  girl,  my  child."     And,  for  a  good   girl, 
Rence's  life  had  its  advantages.     She  had  the  best 
masters,  and,  at  twenty,  was  far  better  educated 
than  others  of  her  age.     If  she  lacked  the   com 
panionship  of  her  sex  and   years,  with  its  inev 
itable  mixture  of  good  and  bad,  serious  and  silly, 
on  the  other  hand  she  had  passed,  in  the  freedom 
of  her  uncle's  salon,   the  narrow  confines  of  the 
conventional  system    of   education.     From  child 
hood  to  the  verge  of  womanhood  she  had  grown 
up  among  these  friends  of  her  uncle  without  ever 
making  a  formal  entrde  into  society.    To  the  ques 
tion  of  a  new-comer,  there  was  always  some  one 
to   answer,  "  That  young  girl  ?     Oh,  that  is  the 
niece  of  M.  Michel."     And  this  society  had  been 
a  second  education,  which  kept  pace,  year  by  year, 
with  her  books,  and  was  not  the  least  of  her  teach 
ers.     If  it  wanted  some  elements  of  childish  pleas 
ure,  still,  among  these  older  companions,  it  afforded 
her  glimpses  of  a  broader  and  larger  life  than  is 
to  be  seen  in  the  school-room,  for  all  its  descrip 
tions  of  China  and  definitions  of  the  soul.    So  that 
while  still   inexperienced   she  could,  in  some  re 
spects,  have  entered  that  hot -bed  called  society 
with  a  sturdier  constitution  and  with  less  danger 


BUT  YET  A    WOMAN.  71 

than  usual.  Among  these  older  people,  in  this 
somewhat  stately  circle,  she  had  not  been  exposed 
to  those  sudden  intimacies  which  ripen  the  fruit 
too  fast,  and  exhaust  the  heart  by  foolish  and  false 
emotions. 

M.  Michel's  friend,  Madame  Valfort,  long  ago 
had  been  a  great  beauty.  But  her  intelligence 
and  good  sense  was  beyond  the  reach  of  years, 
and  saved  her  from  living  only  on  a  remembrance. 
Equally  with  M.  Lande,  but  in  a  different  way, 
she  demonstrated  the  fact  that  age  does  not  de 
pend  upon  years,  but  upon  temperament. 

Re  nee  had  been  for  her  a  source  of  perplexity, 
not  to  say  anxiety ;  and  many  a  kind  word  and 
motherly  hint  had  she  given  to  M.  Michel's  niece, 
for  which  the  latter  had  been  grateful.  If,  thanks 
to  Renee,  her  uncle  had  discharged  his  trust  in  a 
manner  that  gave  Madame  Valfort  an  agreeable 
surprise,  the  time  had  at  last  come  when  her  per 
plexity  was  redoubled.  She  had  seen  the  lorg 
nettes  directed  to  M.  Michel's  box,  when  Renee, 
ignorant  of  all  that  passed  around  her,  had  ears 
only  for  the  song  of  Romeo,  or  eyes  only  for  the 
dagger  of  Phaedra.  More  than  once  she  had  been 
importuned  for  an  introduction,  though  far  too 
loyal  to  so  presume  upon  her  privileges  as  to  in 
troduce  a  lover  into  her  friend's  salon. 

"  Really,"  she  said  to  him,  one  spring  day,  "  all 
this  must  have  an  end.  You  cannot  go  on  so  for 
ever."  And  after  some  conversation  designed  to 


72  BUT  YET  A    WOMAN. 

assist  M.  Michel's  mental  vision,  it  was  arranged 
that  in  the  following  winter  Re*ne*e  should  make 
her  social  ddbut  under  her  auspices. 

When  she  made  her  announcement,  Rene*e 
seemed  le^s  pleased  than  she  anticipated.  Still, 
she  gave  Madame  Valfort  a  kiss,  which  reassured 
her. 

"  I  have  told  Re*nde  of  our  plans,"  she  said  to 
M.  Michel,  shortly  afterwards. 

"  Oh,  by  the  way  !  "  he  said,  lifting  his  spectacles 
over  his  eyes,  "  since  I  saw  you  she  tells  me  that 
she  has  a  plan  —  a  serious  one." 

"  A  plan  !     What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  She  wishes  to  enter  a  convent." 

"  A  convent !  "  said  Madame  Valfort,  smiling 
faintly.  «  What  an  idea  !  " 

"  The  dear  child  is  very  determined.  It  seems 
she  has  thought  of  it  for  a  long  time." 

•'  Who  can  have  put  such  a  thought  into  her 
head?  It  is  preposterous." 

"  It  may  be  so,"  replied  M.  Michel,  who  in  an 
emergency  always  seemed  unexpectedly  to  know 
what  he  was  about;  "  but  she  has  settled  it." 

"Settled  it!  Why,  what  can  you  mean,  my 
friend?"  hardly  knowing  whether  to  be  most  as 
tonished  at  Renee's  audacity  or  at  M.  Michel's 
complacency. 

"  She  has  talked  with  Soeur  Ursnle  of  St.  Luc, 
where  she  goes  sometimes  vvitli  clothing  and  food 
for  the  sick,  and  she  wishes  to  begin  her  novitiate 


BUT   YET  A    WOMAN.  73 

Boon  —  this  winter  even.  It  would  be  a  great 
sacrifice  for  me,  my  dear  friend  "  — 

"  And  a  greater  one  for  herself !  " 

"  That  is  what  I  do  not  know.  You  think 
so?" 

"  Decidedly,"  said  Madame  Valfort,  with  em 
phasis,  having  regained  her  composure.  "  But 
leave  her  to  me.  We  have  at  least  six  months, 
and  in  that  time  she  will  change  her  mind." 

"  It  is  quite  possible,  I  admit,"  M.  Michel  an 
swered,  letting  his  spectacles  fall  again. 

In  the  mean  time  Roger  entered  on  the  scene. 
When  he  first  came  into  the  salon  of  the  Rue  du 
Bac,  he  was  not  altogether  a  stranger  to  Rene*e. 
His  name  certainly  was  a  familiar  one.  Often  had 
she  heard  M.  Lande  speak  of  him  to  her  uncle  as 
they  conversed  before  the  fire,  and  this  introduc 
tion  of  the  son  by  the  father  was  sure  to  have 
been  a  flattering  one.  All  that  his  own  life  had 
failed  to  realize,  M.  Lande  saw  in  Roger.  He 
nf.ver  tired  of  rehearsing  those  qualities  which  he 
himself  lacked,  but  which  Roger  possessed ;  and 
the  success  and  reputation  which  had  been  denied 
him  were  even  dearer  in  his  eyes  as  achieved  by 
his  son.  When  he  thought  of  him  it  was  always 
with  this  halo  of  honor  about  his  head,  as  he 
would  think  of  one  of  the  apostles.  Not  that  he 
was  wholly  blind  to  his  defects,  but  he  spoke  of 
them  tenderly,  as  the  shadows  necessary  to  the 
relief  of  a  strong  character  and  as  something 


74  BUT  YET  A    WOMAN. 

which  time  would  soften  or  transform.  When, 
then,  Roger  himself  appeared,  R6ne*e  knew  him 
already. 

In  nothing  did  Rene*e  so  thoroughly  reveal  her 
self  as  in  this  desire  to  enter  the  cloister.  She 
had  been  nurtured  in  solitude,  and  in  solitude  the 
soul  declares  its  true  faith,  —  it  is  a  candidate  for 
nothing.  If  Roger  was  right  in  calling  her  desire 
a  folly,  he  was  also  right  in  calling  it  sublime. 
This  offer  of  her  life  was,  indeed,  neither  a  renun 
ciation  nor  a  flight.  She  knew  too  little  of  life's 
pleasures  for  true  sacrifice,  too  little  of  its  sorrows 
to  wish  to  avoid  them.  The  act  she  contemplated 
was  simply  an  aspiration,  but  this  aspiration  was 
the  index  of  her  soul.  The  vows  of  chastity,  hu 
mility,  or  poverty  would  have  been  for  her  only  a 
declaration  of  faith.  To  many  a  tear-stained  suf 
ferer  this  convent  door  is  the  Jordan,  over  which 
it  passes  into  the  Land  of  Promise  and  of  Peace ; 
and  to  many  a  sin-stained  penitent  it  is,  like  the 
Rubicon,  the  symbol  of  a  new  and  great  resolve. 
But  for  Renee  it  was  only  the  door,  nothing  else, 
—  leading  into  a  new  room  surely,  but  as  easily  as 
when  from  ten  years  old  she  became  eleven.  It 
was  simply  a  matter  of  a  new  dress  and  a  birth 
day  cake. 

In  the  way  of  this  aspiration  suddenly  appeared 
two  obstacles —  Madame  Valfort  and  Roger  Lande. 
The  former  troubled  her  but  little.  As  an  ob« 
stacle  her  opposition  was  like  a  hill  over  which 


BUT  YET  A    WOMAN.  75 

our  road  winds,  but  to  which  we  scarcely  give  a 
thought.  As  to  the  latter  she  felt  a  vague  uncer 
tainty  and  anxiety,  as  when  launching  upon  an 
unknown  sea  we  perceive  its  horizon  veiled  in  mys 
tery,  and  feel  the  strength  of  those  great  currents 
which  hurry  us  resistlessly  we  know  not  where, 

While  Roger  was  breakfasting  with  M.  Le  Blanc 
on  the  piazza  the  morning  after  his  arrival  in  Beau- 
vais,  and  M.  Michel  was  writing  his  second  volume 
on  Egypt,  Renee,  in  her  white  morning  dress  and 
slippers,  stole  quietly  down  from  her  chamber  to 
Stephanie's  door. 

Evening  thoughts  grow  cold  in  the  night.  That 
which  then  troubles  us,  when  the  imagination  is 
most  active,  increases  the  pulse  and  produces 
fever;  in  the  morning  the  fever  abates,  the  mind 
is  more  clear,  reflection  more  dispassionate,  —  but 
this  reaction  produces  despondency.  Renee  had 
been  troubled  by  her  conversation  with  Roger. 
Maturing  quietly  in  her  own  mind,  her  plan  had 
appeared  to  her  in  that  conversation  in  a  new 
light.  She  had  seen  it  from  a  different  stand 
point,  and,  while  she  had  not  been  convinced,  she 
was  perplexed,  —  like  all  who,  having  settled  a 
question  satisfactorily,  are  disturbed  at  the  appear 
ance  of  unlooked-for  factors,  and  are  thus  obliged 
to  doubt  a  decision  which  before  seemed  natural 
and  simple. 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  felt  keenly  the 
need  of  some  one  besides  M.  Michel,  some  one  to 


76  BUT  YET  A  WOMAN. 

whom  a  long  explanation,  a  statement  prepared 
as  for  a  referee,  would  not  be  necessary,  some  one 
who  would  divine  her  trouble  without  making  her 
confess  it.  It  is  a  long  time  before  we  outgrow 
that  childish  indecision  which  renders  choice  so 
difficult ;  and  in  this  first  great  responsibility  she 
turned  instinctively  to  one  who  should,  in  deciding 
with  her,  help  her  to  share  it. 

But  M.  Michel,  when  he  kissed  her  cheek  at 
breakfast,  never  knew  whether  it  was  hot  or  cold. 
Even  had  she  been  in  Paris  it  is  doubtful  if  she 
would  have  consulted  Soeur  Ursule.  Partly  for 
the  reason  that  she  felt  that  Soeur  Ursule's  de 
cision  would  necessarily  be  incomplete,  and,  being 
very  honest,  this  would  not  satisfy  her  ;  partly,  it 
must  be  confessed,  because  when  she  thought  of 
So3ur  Ursule  the  color  in  her  cheeks  deepened, 
and  she  felt  a  little  frightened.  Living  so  long 
without  thoughts  which  frightened  her,  this  first 
secret  one,  which  she  hardly  knew  how  to  name, 
almost  made  her  ashamed. 

When  she  knocked  at  the  door  she  had  not 
really  thought  of  speaking  with  Stephanie  of  this, 
though  she  would  have  feared  less  to  talk  with 
her  than  with  any  one  else  whom  she  knew.  Yet 
in  this  morning  visit  she  was  making  one  of  those 
shy  advances  which  a  friend  would  so  quickly  per 
ceive. 

"  Where  are  we  going  to-day,  Rdnde  ?  ''  asked 
Stephanie. 


BUT  YET  A  WOMAN.  77 

"  My  uncle  wished  to  go  to  the  chateau,"  said 
Re*nee,  looking  about  the  room.  Two  days  be 
fore  it  had  been  like  her  own,  very  pretty,  but 
very  simple,  with  its  fresh  white  bed  and  curtains 
that  gave  it  a  modest  and  maidenly  air.  What 
had  Stephanie  done  to  it  ?  It  seemed  more  cosy, 
even  luxurious.  Perhaps  it  was  only  the  effect  of 
Stephanie  herself  in  her  pale  blue  surah  role  de 
chambre,  trimmed  with  white  lace,  as  she  sat  be 
fore  the  dressing  glass  while  Lizette  combed  her 
hair. 

44  How  do  you  go  ?     By  carriage?  "  she  asked. 

"  That  is  the  best  way,"  said  Renee,  "  because 
at  night  the  wind  often  dies  out,  and  we  should  be 
obliged  to  row  back.  We  will  send  to  the  town 
for  our  carriage,  and  I  will  drive  over  the  ponies 
with  M.  Lande." 

"  What  a  manager  you  are." 

"  There  must  be  some  management.  You  know 
my  uncle  would  not  think  of  such  things,  and, 
when  the  carriages  came,  no  one  would  know  his 
place." 

4i  True  enough,"  said  Stephanie,  smiling.  "  And 
coming  back,  have  you  arranged  that  ?  " 

44  Would  you  like  to  drive  my  ponies  ?  " 

Stephanie  was  watching  Lizette's  fingers  as  they 
gave  the  last  touches  to  that  simple  coiffure  which 
men  pronounced  classic,  and  certain  women,  after 
having  endeavored  in  vain  to  imitate  it,  pro 
nounced  childish,  even  ugly.  For  not  all  face* 


78  BUT    YET  A    WOMAN. 

lend  themselves  to  that  rare  agreement  between 
the  subject  arid  the  style,  which  gave  to  Stepha 
nie's  toilette  that  natural  accent  which,  more  than 
anything  else,  was  the  secret  of  its  success. 

"  Very  much.  I  have  not  driven  since  I  left 
Russia.  And  I  will  take  M.  Roger  back  with 
me,  and  surrender  M.  Lande  to  the  others.  I  want 
to  talk  with  him." 

Following  Lizette's  fingers,  she  caught  ReneVs 
eyes  in  the  glass,  and  there  was  that  in  them 
which  caused  her  to  say,  "  That  will  do.  You 
may  go  down  for  my  chocolate." 

When  Lizette  had  closed  the  door,  she  went 
over  to  Renee. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  my  child  ?  "  she  said,  kiss 
ing  her  cheek  and  sitting  down  beside  her  in  the 
large  easy  chair. 

Rende  looked  at  her  silently,  as  if  to  say, "  Why 
do  you  ask  me  ?  " 

Stephanie's  manner  was  winning,  not  because  it 
was  tender,  like  a  mother's,  but  because  it  in 
spired  confidence.  She  knew  Renege  well  enough 
to  feel  that  the  shortest  way  was  the  best,  and 
that  circumlocutions  were  needless. 

"Something  troubles  you,"  she  continued,  tak 
ing  her  hands.  "  Do  I  add  to  it  in  speaking  to 
you  ?  " 

"  Not  yet,"  said  Renee,  courageously. 

44 1  do  not  wish  to  do  so  at  all,  my  dear,"  said 
Stephanie,  drawing  Renee  towards  her  to  hide  a 


BUT  YET  A   WOMAN.  79 

smile;  "but  I  think  I   know  what  troubles  you. 
Is  it  not  Roger  Lande  ?  " 

44  Partly." 

"  And  what  else?     Tell  me,  dear." 

"  Sceur  Ursule." 

"  Renee,  do  you  love  him  ?  " 

"  No  !  "  she  said,  releasing  herself  suddenly. 

44  When  one  thinks  as  you  are  thinking,  one 
is  beginning  to  love." 

44 1  was  afraid  so,"  Rende  said,  looking  up. 

44  Afraid  ?  Why  should  you  be  afraid  ?  Are 
you  afraid  of  loving  ?  " 

44 1  had  not  thought  of  it.  Moreover,  I  have 
my  doubts  whether  you  are  right." 

"  Ah,  Renee,  you  make  me  only  the  more  sure. 
I  do  not  think  you  are  a  thoughtless  child  to  be 
deceived  by  a  passing  emotion,  and  something  else 
which  I  have  in  mind  I  know  you  are  not.  One 
does  not  question  one's  heart  seriously,  except  it 
is  already  lost." 

44  How  can  you  say  so,"  said  Renee,  half  rebel 
lious,  half  ashamed.  44  You  talk  to  me  as  if  you 
wished  to  persuade  me  to  believe  it." 

There  was  certainly  more  than  curiosity  in  the 
question. 

44  No,"  said  Stephanie,  quietly.  44 1  wish  you 
to  know  yourself." 

44 1  should  not  know  myself,  if  you  were  right." 

44  Tell  me  truly,  Renee,  have  you  begun  to  ques 
tion  your  plan  to  enter  the  convent?  " 


80  BUT   YET  A    WOMAN. 

"  Not  really.     I  was  thinking  of  it.'* 

"  But  what  leads  you  to  think  of  it  again  ?  Is 
it  not  he  ?  " 

"No."  said  Rdnde,  quickly,  "it  is  what  he 
said." 

"  And  if  I  said  it,  would  it  have  the  same 
weight  with  you  ?  " 

"I  do  not  know,"  Rene*e  answered,  after  a 
pause. 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"  Perhaps  I  do  not  say  it  rightly,  but  it  seemed 
to  me  as  if  he  said  that  besides  devoting  one's 
self  to  God,  there  was  something  better.  Only  I 
know  he  meant  there  was  a  better  way  than 
mine." 

"  Well,  is  that  impossible  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know.  I  know  one  can  live  a  good 
life  in  the  world,  but  I  thought  of  a  better  one." 

"  But  why  should  we  not  all  choose  this  better 
one  ?  Do  you  think  God  has  made  a  world  which 
can  be  maintained  only  on  the  condition  that  nine 
ty-nine  live  a  lower  life,  while  but  one  lives  the 
higher?" 

"  I  did  not  say  that  because  the  world  would 
stop  we  cannot  all  enter  a  convent,  but  because 
not  all  are  able  to  live  this  better  life." 

"  It  is  the  same  thing,"  said  Stephanie.  "God 
made  the  world." 

"Aunt  Stephanie,"  said  Re'ne'e,  very  earnestly, 
after  a  pause. 


BUT  YET  A   WOMAN.  81 

"  What  did  I  ask  you,  Renee  ?  " 

"  Do  you  really  believe,  Stephanie,  that  I  can 
live  a  better  life  in  the  world  than  in  the  con 
vent  ?  " 

"  I  believe  that  better  lives  are  so  lived,  and 
that  God  has  given  us  love  to  make  it  possible. 
Now  will  you  answer  me  a  question  as  frankly  ?  " 

«  What  is  it  ?  " 

"  Would  it  make  you  glad  if  you  believed  my 
answer  true  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  believe  it  yet,  —  I  do  not  know,— 
whether  it  is  true  or  not." 

"  No,  but  if  it  were." 

Had  Lizette  been  there  she  would  have  no 
ticed  this  strange  pertinacity,  and  would  have 
looked  in  the  glass  to  see  her  mistress'  face. 

"  I  am  not  good  enough  to  become  a  Sister," 
said  Renee,  impulsively.  '*  I  believe  I  should  be 
glad." 

"  Have  I  troubled  yon,  R^nee  ?  " 

"  If  you  have,  it  is  my  fault,"  she  said.  "  I 
have  no  right  to  ask  you  to  agree  with  me.  I 
wanted  you  to  help  me." 

"  Well,  now  I  am  going  to.  I  see  farther  than 
you  do.  In  some  respects,  at  least,  I  know  bet 
ter,  and  I  am  going  to  advise  you.  The  convent 
is  a  long  way  off ;  you  have  really  six  months  to 
decide  in,  —  more  if  you  wish.  But  Roger  Lande 
is  close  at  hand.  What  if  he  should  begin  to  love 
you  ?  " 

e 


82  BUT   YET  A  WOMAN. 

"  But  he  has  no  right  "  — 

"  It  is  not  a  question  of  right,  but  of  fact. 
Could  you  prevent  it  if  you  wished  to  ?  I  do  not 
mean  that  you  are  at  the  mercy  of  every  man 
who  should  say  he  adored  you.  Fortunately  most 
men  are  so  .constituted,"  she  said,  with  a  trace  of 
bitterness,  "  that  we  can  dispose  of  ourselves  with 
out  incurring  much  risk  of  destroying  them.  But 
Roger  Lande  is  not  a  common  man,  Rende.  If 
once  he  had  begun  to  love  you,  it  would  be  too 
late.  He  could  not  say  then,  as  you  do  now, 
6  No,  I  am  going  to  retire  from  life.' ' 

"  But   what   can   I  do,  Stephanie?     I   cannot 

fly-" 

"  No,  you  cannot  fly.     That  would  be  absurd." 

"  It  seems  to  me  that,  instead  of  helping  me 
out  of  trouble,  you  wished  to  convince  me  that  I 
was  surrounded  by  it,"  said  Rene'e. 

"  Renee,"  said  Stephanie,  taking  her  hand  in 
both  her  own,  and  looking  into  her  eyes,  "  I  have 
been  in  trouble  myself,  and  I  have  found  that 
the  way  out  is  to  recognize  first  that  one  is  in." 

"  You  make  me  laugh  in  spite  of  myself,"  said 
Renee,  almost  in  tears. 

"  Then  we  are  quits,  dear ;  only  you  are  more 
honest  than  I,  for  just  now,  when  you  amused  me, 
I  did  not  dare  to.  I  mean  this,"  she  resumed,  "  I 
do  not  say  to  you,  *  Wait !  Time  will  decide  foi 
you  ;  it  is  nothing.'  Just  fears  cannot  be  reasoned 
away,  or  kissed  away,  and  time  never  decides  any- 


BUT  ;ET  A  WOMAN.  83 

thing.  On  the  contrary,  look  into  your  own  heart ; 
listen  to  what  it  tells  you.  It  will  advise  you  in 
this  better  than  Soeur  Ursule  —  or  than  I.  Yours, 
and  his,  they  are  both  alike.  Hide  from  them, 
and  they  will  find  you  ;  thwart  them,  and  you  will 
break  them.  You  would  know  then  what  you 
now  call  trouble  ;  and  between  this  and  that  there 
is  the  difference  between  the  mist  that  the  morn 
ing  sun  drinks  up  and  the  clouds  that  hide  his 
face  at  night." 

"Stephanie,"  said  Renege,  after  a  little,  "had 
you  been  thinking  of  me,  or  of  —  of  M.  Lande, 
I  mean  before  this  morning  ?  " 

"  A  little,"  she  said,  smiling. 

"  Was  it  because  of  anything  —  anything  that 
I"  — 

"  My  dear  child,  no  !     Never  !     Here  is  Lizette 


coming." 


Rene*e  threw  both  arms  round  her  neck. 

44  Promise  me  not  to  speak  of  it  again.  I  must 
think  it  out  for  myself.  Will  you  come  down 
with  me  and  prepare  the  lunch  we  are  going  to 
take  ?  "  she  said,  as  Lizette  opened  the  door. 

"Love,  love,  love!"  said  Stephanie,  sitting 
down,  when  she  had  gone,  in  the  chair  before  her 
dressing-table,  and  looking  at  the  face  reflected 
in  the  glass.  "  It  will  drag  him  out  of  his  seclu 
sion,  and  prevent  her  from  entering  hers."  But 
if  this  was  all  she  said,  she  was  evidently  think 
ing  of  more  than  this. 


84  BUT  YET  A   WOMAN. 

"  Is  not  madame  satisfied  ?  "  asked  Lizette,  aftei 
standing  with  her  tray  what  seemed  a  long  time. 

4  Yes,"  said  Stephanie,  letting  drop  the  silk 
screen  over  the  glass,  like  a  curtain  that  falls  upon 
a  play  that  is  finished.  "  Put  it  here  beside  me. 
I  am  very  hungry." 


BUT  YET  A   WOMAN.  85 


VL 

THE  day  of  the  excursion  to  the  Chateau  of 
Beauyais  was  all  that  its  morning  promised.  Na 
ture  was  in  her  generous  mood,  and  filled  it  with 
happy  surprises.  She  sent  cool  breezes  from  the 
lake  to  temper  the  midday  air,  and  while,  seated 
around  the  wooden  table  in  the  smoke-browned 
room  of  the  farmer's  house  attached  to  the  chateau, 
ReneVs  guests  were  doing  justice  to  her  luncheon, 
one  of  those  brief  showers,  which  fill  the  air  with 
perfumes,  and  from  which  the  landscape  emerges 
with  fresh  coloring  and  sharpened  outlines',  and 
when  the  evening  sun,  streaming  through  the 
trees  on  the  crest  of  Mont  St.  Jean,  furrowed  the 
water  with  crimson  lines,  she  had  stilled  the  breeze 
and  scattered  the  clouds,  and  had  made  ready  one 
of  those  summer  nights  in  which  the  silent  proc 
esses  of  growth  make  the  very  air  warm  with  a 
luxurious  life,  and  our  own  pulses  throb  with  hers 
to  a  nameless  sense  of  desire  and  peace. 

"  I  am  going  to  drive  ReneVs  ponies  home/' 
said  Stephanie,  as  the  carriages  drove  up  to  the 
door.  "  Will  you  trust  yourself  with  me,  M. 
Lande  ? "  she  asked,  turning  to  Roger,  as  she 
stepped  into  the  phaeton  and  took  the  reins. 


86  BUT  YET  A    WOMAN. 

She  had  scarcely  spoken  with  him  all  the  day 
long,  and  her  invitation  surprised  him  ;  but  he 
accepted  it  with  pleasure.  In  spite  of  his  resolve, 
Stephanie  excited  his  curiosity,  and,  while  he  had 
exchanged  so  few  words  with  her  since  their  first 
meeting  at  Aix,  her  very  reserve  was  a  fascina 
tion. 

As  Re*nee  had  said,  there  was  an  ease  in  her 
manner  which  made  one  feel  as  though  one  had 
known  her  a  long  time ;  still,  he  agreed  more  and 
more  with  Father  Le  Blanc,  that  this  knowledge, 
like  the  reflection  in  the  river,  apparently  so  real 
in  its  perspective,  was  only  a  surface  illusion. 
Perhaps,  too,  in  fortifying  himself  against  curi 
osity,  he  had  anticipated  the  manner  in  which  it 
would  be  aroused,  and,  coming  from  an  unex 
pected  quarter,  the  enemy's  force  is  not  always 
recognized. 

The  process  of  becoming  acquainted  with  some 
people  is  a  restful  one :  every  day  brings  its  own 
disclosure,  which  completes  the  intimacy  and  fills 
out  the  character  ;  one  by  one  appear  those  ten 
der  tones  and  melting  shades  which  soften  and 
fuse  its  contrasts.  And  there  are  others,  like  a 
picture  whose  foreground  we  feel  to  be  unimpor 
tant,  whose  horizon  aloue  fascinates  and  entices 
us.  What  is  near  and  apparent  but  renders  us 
the  more  eager  to  penetrate  this  encircling  mys 
tery.  M.  Michel  certainly  seemed  insensible  to 
any  such  peculiarity  in  his  sister.  He  treated  her. 


BUT  YET  A    WOMAN.  87 

as  he  did  every  one,  with  that  charming  courtesy, 
almost  gallantry,  belonging  to  certain  of  his  race, 
—  that  race  of  literary  men  who,  absorbed  in 
their  ideal  world,  slip  out  into  life  occasionally 
only,  as  one  would  make  a  visit,  to  say,  "  Ma 
dame,  I  trust  you  are  well,"  or,  "  Accept  my  con 
gratulations." 

Roger  was  not  guilty  of  a  vulgar  curiosity  to 
know  her  life,  or  her  past.  But  the  woman,  — • 
what  was  she?  What  he  had  heard  from  Father 
Le  Blanc,  what  he  had  seen  at  Aix,  —  these  things 
he  thought  of,  not  for  themselves,  but  only  as  they 
contrasted  with  her  quiet  dignity  and  reserve,  and 
increased  the  desire  to  understand  the  woman 
The  question  he  asked  himself,  as  he  thought  of 
her,  was  less  what  she  had  done  or  been,  and 
rather  what  she  might  do  and  be.  Indeed,  those 
very  occasions  on  which  he  had  observed  her,  so 
different  were  they;  her  moods,  too,  so  variable 
were  they,  that  one  might  well  ask  for  the  single 
answer  to  all  the  forms  of  this  enigma.  In  the 
garden  of  the  HQtel  du  Nord  he  might  have  seen 
a  woman  meeting  her  lover ;  delivering  the  letter 
to  Stephanie  Milevski,  the  actor  in  some  court  in 
trigue  ;  trifling  with  M.  de  Marzac,  she  was  only 
a  woman,  beautiful  and  brilliant,  a  little  venom 
ous,  even,  but  ever  mysterious ;  later,  as  he  poured 
her  coffee,  imperious,  distrustful,  even  dangerous  ; 
and  then,  suddenly,  as  once  before,  at  Aix,  trust 
ful,  frank,  with  a  trace  of  tenderness.  Doubtless, 


88  BUT   YET  A  WOMAti. 

to  this  nature,  as  to  all,  there  was  the  one  skele 
ton  key  which  unlocks  all  its  wards,  the  one  word 
which  explains  all  its  contradictions.  What  was 
it  ?  For  natures,  like  melodies,  have  their  key 
note,  and  through  one's  moods,  however  varied, 
runs  a  central  fibre  of  character,  like  the  string  in 
a  necklace  of  many-colored  beads. 

After  the  ponies  had  started  she  gave  him  the 
reins,  and  leaned  back  against  the  cushions. 

"  What  a  night !  "  she  said. 

The  stars  were  beginning  to  come  out ;  not 
clear  and  cold,  as  in  winter,  but  veiled  in  an  air 
heavy  with  warmth  and  odors,  and  filled  with 
murmuring  sounds.  The  silence  of  a  winter's 
night  suggests  the  temporary  death  that  reigns 
over  nature  ;  the  mother's  bosom  is  still  because 
it  is  cold.  But  in  this  summer  silence  her  warm 
breath  is  on  our  cheeks,  and  we  hear  the  very 
buds  swell. 

"  I  supposed  you  wished  to  drive,"  he  said,  tak 
ing  the  reins. 

"  No,  I  wish  to  talk  with  you." 

"  I  thought  so,"  replied  Roger,  to  whom  this  in 
vitation  began  to  have  a  significance. 

"  Why  ?     Is  your  conscience  so  sensitive  ?  " 

"It  is  about  myself,  then,  that  you  wish  to 
talk." 

"  Yes,  and  no.  I  am  going  to  commence  with 
an  allegory.  You  remember  you  once  did  me  a 
favor." 


BUT  YET  A   WOMAN.  89 

"  For  which  you  thanked  me." 

"  Are  you  so  afraid  of  having  me  as  your  debtor  ? 
If  you  insist  upon  reversing  the  r61es,  I  warn  you 
I  might  prove  an  exacting  creditor." 

"  I  think  the  account  is  closed.'* 

44  You  amuse  me,"  she  said,  laughing.  "  Do  you 
intend  to  go  through  life  with  your  accounts  al 
ways  balanced?  But  seriously,  M.  Lande,"  she 
said,  sitting  up,  "  I  have  something  to  say  to  you, 
and  I  wish  you  to  listen  to  me  patiently.  I  re 
turn  to  Paris  to-morrow.  Letters  which  I  received 
this  morning  call  me  back  unexpectedly,  and  it 
may  be  I  shall  travel.  At  all  events,  it  is  uncer 
tain  when  I  shall  see  you  again,  and  I  cannot 
make  up  my  mind  to  be  silent,  even  if  my  concern 
should  prove  groundless,  or  if,  in  discharging  this 
duty,  I  am  less  delicate  than  you  were.  I  have  a 
friend  —  a  young  girl.  She  has  a  strong  charac 
ter,  and  is  capable  of  strong  feeling;  but  she  has 
lived  apart  from  the  world,  almost  in  solitude. 
The  very  angels  would  smile  to  hear  her  confes 
sion.  Left  to  herself,  she  will  continue  her  life 
as  it  begins." 

"  You  mean  that  she  will  enter  the  cloister." 

"  Precisely  ;  and  on  that  question  I  do  not  wish 
to  exert  any  influence.  I  might  regret  to  see  her 
take  the  veil ;  for  though  her  character,  develop 
ing  thus  in  all  its  purity,  should  so  remain  un- 
ecarred,  I  should  miss  something  in  it.  I  admire 
moral  beauty  most  when  it  is  also  moral  heroism. 


90  BUT  YET  A    WOMAJST. 

That  is,  I  prefer  character  beautiful  because 
strong,  and  strong  because  capable  of  resistance, 
not  because  superior  to  temptation.  Be  that  as  it 
may,  the  latter  is  more  difficult.  Should  she  enter 
her  convent,  however  much  I  might  regret  it,  con 
cern  for  her  would  cease.  And  if  she  did  not "  — 

"  Well  ?  "  said  Roger. 

Stephanie  paused  a  moment.  She  was  approach 
ing  the  more  difficult  part  of  her  undertaking. 

"  A  friend  of  yours,  M.  Lande,"  she  continued 
presently,  "  meets  this  friend  of  mine.  Carry 
him  this  message.  Do  not  ask  for  an  explanation, 
for  he  might  refuse  your  right  to  it,  and  you 
would  thus  offend  him  ;  but  ask  him  to  reflect 
upon  what  he  may  do,  even  unconsciously, — on 
the  responsibility  he  may  assume.  Tell  him  to 
remember  how,  from  morning  to  night,  we  are 
ever  scattering  the  seeds  whose  harvest  we  cannot 
foretell,  and  oftenest  never  know.  Tell  him  to 
remember  that  soil  in  which  they  full,  the  human 
heart,  —  that  soil  so  rich  that  of  all  these  seeds 
none  utterly  perish.  Will  you  tell  him  this  ?  " 
she  said,  earnestly. 

"Yes,  I  will  tell  him." 

"  And  if,"  she  said  more  gayly,  looking  intt 
Roger's  grave  face,  "  he  should  even  then  be 
offended,  tell  him  he  is  wrong  to  be  so,  since,  in. 
stead  of  preaching  a  sermon,  you  were  content 
with  simply  repeating  the  text." 

"  I  will  answer  for  him,"  said  Roger. 


BUT  YET  A   WOMAN.  91 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  so.  You  increase 
my  confidence.  You  must  use  the  whip,  M. 
Lande  ;  our  friends  are  overtaking  us." 

"  They  will  be  sorry  to  lose  you  so  soon." 

"  And  I  shall  be  sorry  to  go,  for  some  reasons. 
But  in  one  respect  I  have  an  unfortunate  temper 
ament.  I  exhaust  things  too  quickly.  Now  that 
I  have  been  in  Beauvais  a  day,  I  am  not  sorry  to 
go  ;  in  a  week  it  would  almost  be  necessary." 

"  That  is  not  temperament,  but  only  a  habit." 

"Perhaps  so,"  she  replied.  "  Bat  temperament 
lies  back  of  habit,  and  determines  it.  One  is  the 
mould  of  the  other.  I  thought  of  it  this  after 
noon  as  I  was  looking  with  M.  Le  Blanc  at  the 
view  from  the  chateau  tower.  I  saw  it  all  in  a 
glance,  while  he  discovered  its  beauties  gradually, 
one  by  one.  I  was  ready  to  go  when  he  was  in 
the  midst  of  his  enjoyment.  When  one  takes  in 
everything  so  rapidly,  there  is  no  time  for  real 
pleasure,  —  everything  becomes  a  matter  of 
course." 

"  That  is  weariness ;  every  temperament  can  be 
harnessed,"  said  Roger,  for  the  sake  of  the  argu 
ment.  "  The  power  to  take  in  rapidly  ought  no' 
to  prevent  us  from  enjoying." 

"  Well,  it  does  ;  if  only  because  possession  al 
ways  diminishes  enjoyment.  Besides,  it  makes 
very  little  difference,  in  such  a  case,  what  ought 
to  be.  You  cannot  prescribe  an  enjoyment  to  a 
patient  who  has  no  capacity  for  it.  It  would  be  ft 


92  BUT  YET  A    WOMAN. 

great  advance  in  your  art  if  you  could  ;  inasmuch 
as  we  live  in  its  midst,  and  are  obliged  to  see  it 
constantly,  even  when  we  cannot  feel  it.  But  our 
conversation  is  very  doleful ;  let  us  change  it." 

A  long  pause  followed,  which  would  have  been 
embarassing,  only  there  was  no  self-consciousness 
in  it. 

"  How  strange  we  are  !  "  said  Stdphanie,  break 
ing  the  silence.  "  We  sometimes  tell  strangers 
more  than  we  do  our  best  friends." 

"  That  is  only  natural,"  he  replied.  "  To  our 
friends  we  are  either  known  so  well  that  we  have 
no  need  to  speak,  or  so  little  that  we  fear  to." 

Then  followed  another  silence,  an  important 
part  of  some  conversations,  and  one  in  which  the 
argument  makes  the  most  progress. 

"  We  talk  a  great  deal  about  friends  and  friend- 
ships,"  Stdphanie  said,  thoughtfully,  "  and  after  all 
we  have  none.  It  is  easy  to  describe  the  ideal 
friendship,  and  it  is  because  we  are  not  ready  for 
our  part  of  the  compact  that  it  is  not  realized. 
But  we  are  prone  to  lay  the  blame  on  others,  if 
blame  there  is.  Ideal  friendships  are  for  ideal 
people.  As  we  are,  pride  and  self-respect  forbid 
our  tearing  away  all  the  veils  of  the  soul  that 
friends,  such  as  they  are,  may  know  us  completely: 
and  when  we  complain  that  there  are  none,  we 
are  lamenting  our  own  unfitness,  and  in  recogniz 
ing  that  clearly,  we  ought  to  find  reserve  a  virtue. 
Too  much  friendship  is  dangerous,  even  fatal" 


BUT  YET  A    WOMAN.  93 

" 4  Be  at  peace  with  many,  nevertheless  have 
but  one  counselor  of  a  thousand.' ': 

"  Are  you  quoting  ?  You  are  so  often  epigram 
matic  that  I  am  doubtful." 

"  Your  compliment  is  a  dubious  one.  Epigrams 
are  brilliants  usually  bought  at  the  expense  of 
truth." 

"  But  you  do  not  answer  me." 

"  Was  I  quoting  ?     Yes." 

"  Who  ?  "  asked  Stephanie. 

"  Jesus,  the  son  of  Sirach." 

"  That  is  really  curious.  That  book  is  one  of 
my  brother's  favorites.  He  says  it  is  a  complete 
code  of  morality.  And  he  sometimes  quotes  from 
it  very  appositely.  Do  you  know  Madame  Bre 
da?  No?  Well,  she  is  very  bright  and,  in  a 
superficial  way.  well-read  and  agreeable.  When 
M.  Michel  published  his  first  volume  on  Egypt, 
she  took  an  immense  interest  in  it,  and  the  amount 
of  torture  she  inflicted  upon  him  must  have  been 
incalculable,  since  it  resulted  in  what,  for  him, 
was  so  keen  a  thrust.  She  is  a  tireless  talker. 
She  bought  the  volume,  and  insisted  on  conversing 
with  him  about  Egypt  on  every  occasion,  and, 
finally,  even  on  his  writing  something  on  the  fly 
leaf.  I  happened  in  his  study  one  day,  and,  see 
ing  the  book  on  the  table,  was  curious  to  know 
how  he  had  gratified  her.  Opening  the  cover,  I 
found  this  :  — 

" 4  As  the  climbing  up  a  sandy  way  is  to  the 


94  BUT  YET  A    WOMAN. 

feet  of  the  aged,  so  is  a  wife  full  of  words  to  a 
quiet  man.'  ' 

"  Did  he  send  it  ?  "  asked  Roger,  laughing. 

"  No.  I  remonstrated,  and  he  yielded.  He  had 
written  it  in  a  moment  of  exasperation,  and  had 
then  forgotten  all  about  it.  But,  to  go  back,  your 
proverb  is  a  wise  one,  and  I  would  add  to  it, — 
a  thousand  times  listen  to  his  counsel,  but  seek  it 
once  only.  Friendship,  here,  is  a  staff,  and  when 
it  breaks  it  is  under  the  load  of  our  own  infirmi 
ties." 

"  It  seems  to  me  you  are  returning  to  a  doleful 
subject." 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  impetuously;  "I  cannot  help 
it."  Then,  leaning  back  in  her  corner,  and  look 
ing  up  to  the  stars,  "  It  is  the  night,  —  it  is 
stronger  than  I." 

"  When  my  mother  was  dying,  M.  Lande,"  she 
continued  after  a  moment,  in  a  voice  so  quiet  it 
seemed  that  of  another  person,  u  a  street  singer, 
under  the  window,  sang  the  prison  song  from  4 11 
Trovatore.'  I  did  not  notice  it  especially  at  the 
time,  though  I  was  conscious  of  it.  From  that 
day  I  cannot  hear  that  song  without  feeling  again 
as  I  did  at  that  moment.  It  has  the  power  to 
reproduce,  against  my  will  even,  the  conditions  of 
that  mental  state,  and  when  it  reaches  my  ear,  no 
matter  where,  no  matter  how  suddenly,  I  have  the 
very  sense  of  suffocation  in  the  throat,  and  that 
strange  swelling  at  the  heart  which  oppressed  me 


BUT  YET  A    WOMAN.  95 

then.  I  can  think  of  that  scene,  even  dwell  upon 
it,  without  experiencing  these  sensations;  but  this 
song  seems  to  have  become  wrought  into  my  very 
body  and  to  control  it,  so  that  now,  when  the  first 
cause  of  these  sensations  no  longer  exists,  when 
even  the  remembrance  of  it  cannot  renew  them, 
at  its  first  note  I  feel  as  I  then  felt,  and  as  I  should 
feel  if  suddenly  brought  face  to  face  with  a  mortal 
peril.  This  is  what  I  mean  when  I  say  this  sum 
mer  night  is  stronger  than  I.  Like  that  song,  it 
has  the  power  to  remind  me  of  another  night,  — 
no  !  not  to  remind  me  of  it,  to  reproduce  it  !  " 

44  Life  would  be  hard  for  you  in  any  event,"  ex 
claimed  Roger,  involuntarily;  "it  makes  upon  you 
such  deep  impressions." 

She  laughed  with  one  of  those  swift  changes  of 
voice  and  manner  which  characterized  her,  and,  as 
the  ponies  turned  under  the  trees  of  Mont  St. 
Jean,  turned  the  conversation  to  lesser  things. 

At  the  steps  he  gave  her  his  hand  to  alight. 

"  Good-night  and  good-by,"  she  said.  "  I  shall 
take  the  early  train.  Of  our  ride  remember  only 
this,  that  you  gave  me  a  promise  and  are  an  am 
bassador." 

"But  I  shall  see  you  this  evening." 

"  Oh,  certainly,"  she  said,  as  he  opened  the 
door. 

When  Lizette  that  evening  went,  as  was  her 
wont,  to  undo  her  morning's  work,  she  found  her 
mistress  leaning  upon  the  window  which  over- 


96  BUT  YET  A    WOMAN. 

looked  the  sleeping  lake,  with  her  head  bowed 
down  in  her  hands,  and  her  face  bathed  in  tears. 
If  she  was  surprised  she  did  not  show  it,  and  to 
the  order  to  pack  the  trunks  and  to  be  ready  for 
an  early  start,  she  answered  as  usual,  "  Yes,  ma- 
dame." 

The  next  morning  at  breakfast  Stephanie  was 
absent. 

Several  times  during  the  week  telegrams  from 
desperate  or  impatient  patients  arrived  for  Roger ; 
but  he  remained  faithful  to  his  plan,  and  resisted 
all  appeal.  This  brief  rest  was  grateful  to  him, 
and  he  missed  less  than  lie  had  anticipated  the 
pressure  of  his  daily  routine. 

Having  discovered  each  other's  habits  of  early 
rising,  the  little  party  of  five  gathered  every  morn 
ing  about  the  table  on  the  piazza,  and,  alike  to 
the  younger  and  the  older,  the  long  day  without 
duties  or  engagements  was  a  pleasant  vista. 

"Nee  cupias,  nee  metuas"  said  Father  Le  Blanc, 
one  morning. 

The  second  volume  on  Egypt  progressed,  it  is 
to  be  presumed,  satisfactorily,  for  M.  Michel  ap 
peared  every  morning  at  the  door  of  his  library 
with  a  genial  smile,  and  spent  the  remainder  of 
his  day  in  France  with  his  guests.  A  boat  ride 
on  the  lake  ;  a  drive  through  the  environs  ;  a  visit 
with  Re'ne'e  to  her  sick  poor;  —  "I  am  doubly 
armed  against  misfortune,"  she  said  ;  "  I  have  my 
priest  and  my  physician  ;  "  —  a  hard-fought  strug 


BUT  YET  A   WOMAN.  97 

gle  at  piquet  after  dark ;  long  talks  about  nothing 
and  short  ones  on  the  state  of  politics  or  the  drift 
of  religious  and  scientific  thought ;  a  duet  in  the 
evening,  when  M.  Lande  opened  the  dingy  box 
which  contained  his  treasure  and  Rene*e  uncovered 
the  piano  ;  these  were  the  simple  pleasures  which, 
for  such  different  reasons,  made  the  days  happy 
ones  for  each.  Hoec  olim  meminisse  juvabit,  was 
Father  Le  Blanc's  constant  refrain. 

With  that  fine  perception  which  is  not  acquired 
if  it  is  not  native,  both  Re* nee  and  Roger  had 
avoided  all  reference  to  the  subject  of  their  first 
conversation.  It  was  a  question  for  events,  not 
for  arguments,  to  decide.  Either  would  have  felt 
a  moral  jar  had  the  other  reopened  it  so  soon, 
while  each  knew  the  other  had  not  forgotten  it. 

In  this  quiet  life,  regulated  so  simply  by  the 
natural  tastes  of  these  five  people,  some  of  what 
Madame  Valfort  would  have  called  the  proprie 
ties  of  society  were  lost  out  of  sight.  On  the  part 
of  M.  Michel,  because,  if  left  to  himself,  he  natu 
rally  dispensed  with  them  ;  on  the  part  of  Re*nee, 
because  untrained  to  their  slavery  ;  and  as  to  Fa 
ther  Le  Blanc,  this  society  was  ideal  enough  to 
ignore  conventionalities,  and  he  would  have  apol 
ogized  for  their  absence  only  to  a  stranger.  Thus 
it  happened  that  Roger  often  found  an  hour  alone 
with  Rende  on  the  piazza,  acted  as  assistant  gar 
dener,  and  filled  with  her  the  morning  vases,  or 
strolled  with  her  to  the  wood-cutter's  cottage  iff 
7 


98  BUT  YET  A  WOMAN. 

visit  the  paralytic  boy  to  whom  Rdnee  was  a  guar 
dian  angel,  —  happy  hours  !  which  Madame  Val- 
fort,  with  all  her  tact  and  good  nature,  would 
have  marred,  even  had  she  herself  assumed  the 
role  of  dragoness. 

But  all  things  come  to  an  end ;  only,  when  the 
end  comes,  things  are  no  longer  the  same.  Father 
Le  Blanc  and  M.  Lande,  two  old  men  who  knew 
ho\v  to  appreciate  true  happiness,  bad  laid  in  a 
store  of  sweet  recollections  ;  in  this  sunny  atmos 
phere  the  armor  which  Roger  had  worn  as  the  am 
bitious,  even  selfish,  physician,  proved  cumber 
some,  and  some  of  its  pieces  were  laid  aside  ;  in 
the  spring-time  of  life,  he,  with  some  deliberation, 
Renee,  with  some  dream-like  consciousness,  had 
sown  hopes;  and  M.  Michel  had  added  two  impor 
tant  chapters  to  his  second  volume. 


BUT  YET  A  WOMAN.  99 


VII. 

AFTER  the  departure  of  her  guests,  Beauvais 
did  not  seem  to  Renee  quite  the  same  place.  Nor 
would  it  ever  again  be  what  it  had  been. 

Since  first,  as  a  little  girl,  she  had  passed  the 
summer  months  among  its  cool  forests  and  beside 
its  placid  lake,  it  had  been  a  sort  of  Paradise  for 
which  she  yearned  all  through  the  winter,  and  of 
which  an  excursion  now  and  then  into  the  envi 
rons  of  Paris  reminded  her  tantalizingly.  There 
she  came  closer  to  the  great  heart  of  Nature,  to 
which  as  children  we  are  so  near,  —  whose  con 
stant  beat  of  sympathy  the  noise  of  the  world  may 
indeed  drown  for  a  time,  but  which  in  later  years 
we  hear  again  gladly,  falling  asleep  at  last  to  its 
loving  murmur. 

All  kinds  of  bonds  and  fetters  tied  her  literally 
hand  and  foot  in  Paris  ;  pavements  and  sidewalks, 
asphalt  and  Macadam,  all  kept  her  feet  from  the 
warm,  moist  earth  which  they  loved  ;  roar  of  wheels 
and  clatter  of  hoofs  drowned  all  the  inarticulate 
speech  of  wood  and  stream  which  address  the 
heart  in  their  own  alphabet;  and  through  the 
blaze  of  the  gaslit  night,  or  the  smoke  and  dust 
of  the  day,  scarce  a  moonbeam  or  a  sun  ray  could 
filter  pure  and  uncontaminated.  K 


100  BUT  YET  A  WOMAN. 

And  there  were  fetters  of  another  kind,  conven 
tionalities  and  proprieties,  which  put  the  very  res 
idue  of  nature,  left  in  that  hive  of  artificial  life,  be 
yond  her  reach.     No  wonder  that  we  laugh  at  the 
rustic,  and  no  wonder  that  he  laughs  at  us.     Our 
education  has  made  us  aliens  to  the  brotherhood 
of  Nature,  and  only  Nature's  touch  makes  us  kin. 
But  at  Beauvais,  if  the  lake  invited   her,  she 
could  go  out  to  it ;  not  in  a  carriage,  to  stare  at  it, 
as  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  but  to  dip  her  hands 
in  its  cool  waters,  and  let  its  waves  rise  and  fall 
about  her  ankles  ;  if  the  woods  called  her,  she  had 
only   to  open   her  window  and  listen,  or  go  out 
under  their  shadows  and  dream.     Here  she  was 
free.     There  were  no  eyes,  prying  or  cold,  to  cen 
sure  her  or  to  laugh  at  her.     For  Nature  is  like  a 
mistress,  —  we  love  to  be  alone  with  her ;  even  as 
our  mother,  there  is  between  us  and  her  the  sanc 
tity  of  close  relationship  and  communion.     Before 
the  world  of  houses  and  carpets  with  which  our 
factitious  wants  have  surrounded  us  ;  before  the 
world  of  towers  and  spires  which  our  heavenly  as 
pirations   have   builded   us,  we    are   ashamed   to 
stretch  ourselves  out  at  full  length  upon  the  soft 
damp  mosses,  lest  we  hear  the  sneer  of  the  dilet 
tante  or  the  reproach  of  the  pietist. 

R6ne*e  did  not  philosophize  over  her  pleasures. 
She  was  not  yet  beginning  to  lose  them  or  the  love 
of  them.  And,  deprived  as  she  had  been  of  those 
ties  which  sweeten  girlhood,  perhaps  the  overflow 


BUT  YET 


of  her  soul  was  more  than  usually  directed  into 
this  channel.  Certainly  there  was  one  injunction 
of  So3ur  Ursule's  which  she  did  not  fully  under 
stand,  and  against  which  she  found  it  hard  not  to 
rebel. 

"  It  will  be  all  the  easier  for  you,"  said  this  holy 
teacher,  «  who  have  not  felt  in  all  their  intensity 
the  power  of  earthly  ties,  to  develop  and  purify 
the  influences  which  unite  us  to  Heaven.  Do 
some  appear  to  abjure  these  ties  readily  ?  This 
power  is  bought  at  a  great  price.  For  they  had 
first  placed  in  them  all  their  reliance,  to  find  them 
in  the  end  stained  with  sin  and  dimmed  with  tears. 
You,  my  child,  are  spared  this  ordeal,  and  Nature 
will  be  easily  conquered  ;  not  because  you  have 
found  her  a  broken  reed,  but  because  you  have 
not  learned  to  lean  upon  her." 

Conquer  Nature  I  Yes,  it  was  well  enough  to 
say  so  in  Paris,  among  the  sick  and  suffering  of 
the  H6tel-Dieu  St.  Luc,  —  but  in  Beauvais  !  under 
the  branches  of  those  great  trees,  it  was  as  if  one 
should  say  to  the  bud  swelling  in  spring-time, 
«  Conquer  this  force  which  expands  your  petals 
and  works  in  your  thousand  cells,  for  it  is  the 
principle  of  disease  and  decay,  and  only  when  you 
have  subdued  it  shall  the  true  flower  blossom  in 
an  immortal  life  and  bear  fruit  in  eternity.  ' 

This  was  a  mystery  which  Re'mae  solved  by  not 
thinking  of  it. 

And  yet  Beauvais  was  no  longer  the  same.    Not 


&lfT  'YET  A   WOMAN. 

a  ripple  had  deserted  the  lake ;  every  star  was 
faithful,  and  appeared  at  night  in  its  surface  as 
before  ;  the  waters  on  the  shore,  the  wind  among 
the  leaves  talked  still  with  one  another,  and  Fa 
ther  Le  Blanc  had  not  carried  away  in  his  cassock 
a  star,  a  leaf,  or  a  pebble.  Yet  all  was  changed. 
After  all,  .the  wealth  of  Nature  is  not  hers,  and 
her  face  is  but  the  mirror  in  which  we  see  our 
own.  Love  has  but  to  shoot  a  single  arrow,  and 
straightway  we  charge  the  universe  with  hope,  and 
dewdrops  become  opals. 

M.  Michel  remarked  that  when  the  migration 
season  arrived  Rdnee  made  none  of  the  usual  ob 
jections.  He  had  delayed  his  return  later  than 
customary,  for  he  had  become  very  much  absorbed 
in  the  land  of  the  Pharaohs ;  and  this  delay  was 
due  to  the  absolute  quiet  of  Beauvais,  —  for  social 
requirements  were  few,  —  a  quiet  which  left  him 
undisturbed  on  the  Upper  Nile.  There  was  also 
another  circumstance  which  prolonged  his  stay. 
He  was  growing  old,  and  yet  had  got  no  further 
than  Neferkara  of  the  Vlth  dynasty.  He  felt  that 
time  was  pressing,  and  that  he  must  hasten.  Cer 
tain  admonitions  were  not  wanting.  They  were, 
it  is  true,  gentle  ones ;  a  little  unsteadiness  of 
vision,  i  little  dullness  of  touch ;  but  they  foretold 
the  time  when  judgment  too  would  waver,  and 
imagination  and  memory  grow  dull.  But  M.  Mi 
chel  kept  all  this  to  himself.  It  was  one  of  the 
aggravations  of  his  character  that  he  did  not  seek 


BUT   YET  A   WOMAN.  108 

sympathy.  All  relationships  become  closer  and 
dearer  through  our  poverty  as  well  as  our  wealth. 
A  friend  must  need  sympathy  as  well  as  be  ca 
pable  of  giving  it,  else  we  never  have  the  pleas 
ure  of  giving,  which  is  the  golden  side  of  the 
shield  of  gifts. 

But  if  M.  Michel  was  ever  ill,  he  turned  his 
face  to  the  wall.  Unlike  most  of  those  who  live 
in  health  on  independent  resources,  but  who  in 
sickness  are  either  fretful  and  exacting  or  gentle 
and  craving,  he  enjoyed  neither  fretting  nor  wor 
rying,  and  craved  only  to  be  let  alone.  On  doc 
tors,  as  a  species,  he  placed  no  reliance.  "  A  wise 
physician,"  he  used  to  say,  u  is  a  John  the  Bap 
tist,  who  recognizes  that  his  only  mission  is  to  pre 
pare  the  way  for  a  greater  than  he,  —  Nature." 
This,  however,  would  not  have  prevented  him 
from  summoning  all  the  doctors  in  France  for 
Re'ne'e,  if  she  were  ill ;  and  he  would  have  ex 
plained  this  inconsistency  by  saying  that  Rene'e, 
more  fortunate  than  he,  could  respond  to  that  most 
potent  medicine  of  the  materia  medica,  faith  in 
the  physician,  —  a  remedy  which  a  wise  physician, 
however  conscious  of  his  impotence,  carefully  hus 
bands  to  the  last. 

But  the  leaves  were  beginning  to  fall ;  the  winds 
were  growing  colder ;  certain  sessions  of  other 
spectacled  worthies  were  about  to  take  place  in 
Paris,  and  the  return  could  no  longer  be  delayed. 

"  I  wonder  whether  Stephanie  has  returned," 


104  BUT  YET  A   WOMAN. 

said  Re*ne*e  to  her  uncle,  as  they  rode  up  together 
in  the  train. 

"  Returned?  Where  has  she  been  ?  "  asked  M, 
Michel. 

'•  Why,  don't  you  remember  ?  I  read  you  her 
letter  only  the  other  day.  She  did  not  say  where 
she  was  going." 

"  To  Kief,  perhaps." 

"  I  wish  we  might  see  more  of  her,  uncle." 

"  Probably  we  shall,  my  child.  There  have 
been  reasons  for  the  contrary  in  the  past.  After 
the  count's  death  she  remained  at  Kief,  secluded. 
Moreover  the  health  of  her  mother  gave  way  sud 
denly,  and  she  devoted  herself  to  her  care.  When 
she  died,"  and  M.  Michel  laid  down  his  papei  and 
looked  out  of  the  window,  as  if  he  could  see  the 
event  of  which  he  was  speaking,  "  there  was  an 
other  reason  for  retirement.  You  know  it  is  not 
long  since  she  came  out  from  this  seclusion,  and 
in  that  time,  quite  naturally,  she  has  traveled  a 
good  deal.  Probably,  as  I  said,  this  winter  we 
shall  see  her  more  frequently." 

"  Did  you  know  the  Count  Milevski,  uncle?" 

"  I  went  to  Kief  to  the  wedding.  Do  you  re 
member  ?  It  was  not  long  ago." 

"  I  remember  you  went  away.  Tell  me  some 
thing  about  it,  uncle  ;  I  am  interested." 

"  There  is  nothing  to  tell,  especially,"  said  M. 
Michel.  "  They  were  married,  and  the  wedding 
was  as  usual." 


BUT   YET  A   WOMAN.  105 

Re'ne'e,  who  was  a  little  tired,  in  one  of  those 
moods  of  tenderness  which  sometimes  came  to  her 
when  with  M.  Michel,  and  which  embarrassed  him 
not  a  little,  had  nestled  close  to  his  side  and  laid 
her  head  upon  his  shoulder.  These  appeals  to  him 
in  his  capacity  as  father  really  touched  him,  and 
he  usually  responded  by  a  more  than  ordinarily 
tender  kiss  on  her  forehead,  after  which  he  re 
lapsed  into  constraint,  and,  putting  his  arm  around 
her  awkwardly,  sat  very  still  without  moving  a 
muscle. 

"And  then?"  said  Rdne'e. 

"  The  count  took  his  wife  to  St.  Petersburg  to 
present  her  at  court.  It  was  shortly  after  their 
return  that  he  was  arrested." 

"  You  know  I  never  asked  you  about  these 
things.  I  never  should  dare  to  speak  of  them  with 
Stephanie.  Why  was  the  count  arrested?" 

"  No  one  knows  fully  why  it  was.  He  had 
been  in  high  favor  with  the  emperor,  and  it  was 
said  that  Stephanie  was  warmly  received  at  court. 
Her  mother  wrote  me  of  her  reception,  and  of 
how  the  emperor  gave  her  some  token  of  his  good 
will.  Then,  suddenly,  her  husband  was  de 
nounced,  —  by  whom,  no  one  knows.  Such  things 
are  done  very  quickly  in  Russia.  He  was  sum 
moned  to  St.  Petersburg,  and  in  less  than  a  week 
was  on  his  way  to  Siberia.  All  this  broke  the 
good  mother's  heart.  Stephanie  was  the  child  of 
her  old  age,  and  she  had  planned  for  her  a  great 
future.  Then,  on  the  journey,  the  count  died." 


106  BUT  YET  A  WOMAN. 

"  I  should  think  ifc  would  have  broken  Stdpha- 
nie's,"  said  Re*nee. 

"  It  was  a  terrible  shock ;  but  hers  was  younger. 
At  her  mother's  age  it  is  more  sad  to  have  our 
plans  fail,  for  we  have  no  longer  the  time,  then, 
to  repair  them,  or  to  form  new  ones." 

"  But  what  had  M.  Milevski  done  ?  " 

"  No  one  knows  exactly  ;  except  that  he  was 
associated  with  the  Socialists.  The  trial  was  a 
secret  one." 

"  But  could  not  Stephanie  do  something?  Had 
the  count  no  friends  !  " 

"  Ah !  Russia  is  not  France,  my  child.  More 
over,  it  appears  that  she  did  everything.  She 
appealed  herself  to  the  emperor.  The  count  had 
hardly  left  St.  Petersburg  before  she  arrived  there 
to  plead  for  him.  But  it  was  useless.  Then  he 
died,  suddenly.  After  that,  what  remedy  was 
there,  even  if  the  emperor  had  been  willing  to 
apply  it  ?  " 

"One  can  have  justice,"  said  Re*ne*e,  indig 
nantly. 

"After  all  the  worst  is  done?  Justice  can 
not  restore  life.  In  such  a  case  reparation  is  be 
yond  the  power  of  man,  and  is  in  the  hands  of 
God."  And  then,  after  a  pause,  4*  The  count's 
estates  were  also  forfeited,  but  they  were  after 
wards  restored." 

"  I  would  not  have  accepted  them  !  "  said  Rene*e. 

"  Well,  no ;    neither  did  Stephanie.     But  her 


BUT  YET  A    WOMAN.  107 

mother  arranged  that.  She  did  not  wish  to  see 
her  daughter  left  a  beggar.  She  was  prudent, 
and  looked  into  the  future,  and  the  proposal  which 
Stephanie  would  have  rejected,  unbeknown  to  her, 
she  accepted.  In  lieu  of  the  estates,  she  received 
a  sum  of  money;  not  an  equivalent,  still  a  large 
sum  ;  and,  at  her  death,  this  came  to  Stephanie 
as  a  part  of  her  inheritance." 

"  She  must  have  loved  her  husband  very  much," 
said  Re* nee,  after  a  long  interval  of  silence. 

"  Oh,  undoubtedly,"  replied  M.  Michel. 

Evidently  this  last  step  in  the  conversation  had 
carried  him  beyond  his  depth.  Even  Renee 
laughed  to  herself  over  the  calm  assumption  of 
his  answer.  She  remained  so  long  thinking  over 
what  she  had  heard,  that  M.  Michel  supposed  her 
asleep,  and  being  unable  to  open  his  paper  with 
out  disturbing  the  head  on  his  shouldej,  resigned 
himself  to  his  own  thoughts,  and  was  soon  in  the 
land  of  the  Pharaohs. 

Thus  it  happened  that  two  people,  while  making 
the  journey  from  Beauvais  to  Paris,  passed  the 
time,  one  in  Russia,  the  other  in  Egypt. 

Baptiste,  who  had  preceded  them  by  a  train, 
met  them  at  the  station  on  their  arrival  at  Paris. 

"  Madame  Milevski  called  this  morning  to  in 
quire  when  you  were  to  return,  mademoiselle," 
said  the  old  servant,  "  and  learning  that  it  was 
to-day,  she  wrote  this  note." 

"  Ah,  I  am  so  glad  !  "  exclaimed  Rene*e,  tearing 
\t  open  eagerly.  It  was  very  short. 


108  BUT  YET  A    WOMAN. 

I  am  delighted  that  I  am  to  see  you  so  soon.  I 
shall  come  to-night  to  kiss  you,  and  to  propose  a 
plan  to  you.  STEPHANIE. 

"  What  can  it  be  ?  "  thought  Rdne'e. 

In  the  evening,  after  dinner,  she  listened  at 
every  roll  of  wheels  in  the  Rue  du  Bac,  till  at 
last  a  carriage  stopped  in  the  street,  and  a  mo 
ment  later  Stephanie  herself  appeared  at  the 
door.  Re'ne'e  threw  her  arms  around  her  neck. 

44  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you  again  !  " 

Stephanie  kissed  both  her  cheeks,  and  they  sat 
down  together  before  the  fire.  For  very  different 
reasons,  these  two  women  were  beginning  to  lean 
upon  each  other. 

44  And  Beauvais  ;  is  it  charming  as  ever  ?  "  asked 
Stephanie. 

"  Yes,  but  I  missed  you  very  much." 

"  What !  with  your  ponies,  your  boat,  and  your 
chateau  ?  " 

44  When  I  think  that  perhaps  I  have  seen  them 
for  the  last  time!"  Stephanie  noted  the  4' per 
haps."  44  I  really  love  my  ponies;  this  morning 
I  laid  my  cheeks  on  their  warm  noses  and  thought 
of  Sancho." 

44  How  would  you  like  to  play  Sancho  in  re 
ality?" 

44  What  do  you  mean,  Stephanie  ?  " 

44  I  mean  that  I  should  be  the  Knight  of  the 
Woful  Countenance,"  not  in  search  of  adventures, 


BUT  YET  A  WOMAN.  109 

but  to  forget  them,  she  thought,  "  and  that  you 
should  be  my  squire,  and  that  we  should  take  a 
little  journey  together  into  Spain,  under  the  cork 
trees." 

-Really?" 

"  Why,  yes,  really,"  said  Stephanie,  smiling  at 
Renee's  enthusiasm. 

"  What  do  you  think  M.  Michel  would  say?" 

"  What  I  do ;  that  it  would  be  delightful." 

"  Is  this  the  plan  you  spoke  of  in  your  note  ?  " 

"  Yes.  But  I  shall  not  go  without  you ;  it  rests 
with  you." 

"  Oh,  if  it  only  depended  on  me  !  " 

"Well,  does  it"  not?" 

"  Madame  Valfort  "  — 

"  Leave  that  to  me,"  interrupted  Stephanie. 

"  I  would  rather  arrange  it  myself,"  Re*  nee  said, 
after  thinking  a  moment.  "  You  know  she  wished 
me  to  be  presented  this  winter.  Of  course,  I  am 
under  no  obligation,  except  as  she  meant  it  kind 
ly;  but,  under  the  circumstances,  if  I  should  decide 
to  go  with  you,  it  would  be  better  for  me  to  tell 
her ;  otherwise,  she  would  think  that  I  went  sim 
ply  to  thwart  her  projects.  If  I  left  you  to  see 
her,  it  would  appear  as  if  I  was  afraid  or  ashamed 
to  —  I  mean,  as  if  I  avoided  her." 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  interfere  with  Madame  Val- 
fort's  projects ;  on  the  contrary,  I  approve  of 
them.  But  if  I  should  take  charge  of  her  projects, 
would  you  object?" 


110  BUT  YET  A   WOMAN. 

"  No,  and  yes." 

*l  Let   us  see.     When  does  your  novitiate  be 
gin  ?  "  asked  Stephanie,  without  replying  to  R& 
nee's  double  answer. 
44  In  January." 
44  That  is  settled,  is  it  ?  " 

44 1  had  settled  it  in  my  own  mind.  I  am  afraid 
Sceur  Ursule  would  not  think  my  going  to  Spain 
a  very  wise  idea." 

41  Since  I  am  to  lose  you  so  soon,  I  think  you 
ought  to  give  me  a  place  in  these  next  three 
months.  That  would  not  be  too  much  to  ask 
would  it?  But  you  must  decide  for  yourself ;  I 
do  not  wish  to  argue  with  you.  If  you  went  to 
please  me  simply,  you  would  not  enjoy  yourself, 
nor  would  I  either." 

44  Oh,  I  want  to  go,  Stephanie." 
44  What  a  silly  girl  you  are  !     You  have  actually 
committed  yourself    to    Madame    Val fort's    salon 
against  your  wish,  and  yet  you  hesitate  to  go  with 
me,  although  you  desire  to." 

44 1  have  not  really  committed  myself." 
44  It  amounts  to  the  same  thing." 
44  To   be  frank  with   you,  Stephanie,  I  am   not 
afraid  of    Madame   Valfort.     It  is   perfectly  evi 
dent  that  she   wishes  to  divert  me   from  what  I 
have  in  view.     If  I  did  exactly  what  I  wished  to, 
I  should  not  accept  her  invitations  ;  but  then,  I 
know  that  if  I  do  it  will  not  affect  me.     But  I 
am  not  so  sure  of  myself  with  you,"  she  added, 


BUT^YET  A    WOMAN.  Ill 

playfully,  though  with  an  undercurrent  of  ear 
nestness.  "  I  wish  to  go  with  you  more  than  I 
ought  to." 

"Why  do  you  wish  to?"  said  Stephanie.  "I 
am  curious  to  know  what  these  bad  motives  are 
that  trouble  your  conscience.  Is  a  little  love  for 
me  one  of  them  ?  Because,  if  it  is."  she  contin 
ued  in  the  same  earnest  pleasantry,  "  I  am  in  need 
of  some,  and  you  can  begin  your  work  of  charity 
without  delay." 

The  undertone  of  Stephanie's  words  did  not  es 
cape  Renee,  in  whose  memory  was  still  fresh  her 
conversation  with  her  uncle. 

"  I  wish  you  would  promise  me  something," 
she  said,  a  little  reluctantly. 

"  What  ?  " 

"  Not  to  speak  to  me  of  my  plans  unless  I  do." 

"  As  a  condition  of  your  going  ?  " 

Renee  was  a  little  ashamed  to  say  yes,  and  so 
remained  silent. 

"  Well,  no,  my  dear  child,  I  will  make  no  such 
engagement ;  not  because  I  wish  to  argue  with 
you  or  to  influence  you,  but  because  I  do  not  wish 
you  to  distrust  me  even  if  I  do.  You  are  pro 
posing  a  truce,  as  if  I  were  your  enemy.  Now,  if 
I  should  happen  to  differ  from  you  on  any  point, 
you  must  first  respect  my  views,  and  then  you 
must  give  me  credit  for  enough  delicacy  and  good 
sense  not  to  importune  or  to  wound  you  by  forcing 
them  on  your  notice.  That  is  the  condition  that 


112  BUT  YET  A  WOMAN. 

I  should  propose  to  you,  and  the  only  one  under 
which  we  can  make  any  progress  together." 

."Yes,  you  are  right;  I  know  you  are,"  said 
Re'nee,  sitting  down  on  the  hassock  at  her  feet. 
"But  I  was  not  suspicious,  Stephanie;  of  you,  I 
mean.  And  if  you  only  know,"  she  said,  laying 
her  head  down  in  her  lap,  "  it  was  myself  I  wns 
doubtful  of.  I  don't  know- — I  am  perplexed 
sometimes  —  I  want  to  talk  with  you.  I  have 
been  thinking  of  it  ever  since  you  went  away. 
Sometimes  I  feel  terribly  lonely." 

Stephanie's  hand  was  on  her  head,  and  its  soft 
pressure,  as  it  moved  over  her  hair,  was  a  message 
of  love  and  sympathy. 

"  We  won't  talk  of  these  things  to-night,  Renee 
dear.  Put  them  all  out  of  your  thoughts,  if  you 
can.  You  are  troubled  and  nervous.  We  wiJ 
make  our  excursion  to  Spain  together,  and  when 
you  come  back  it  will  be  like  waking  from  a 
sleep  ;  you  will  feel  refreshed,  and  your  way  will 
appear  clearer  to  you." 

"  The  only  way  out  of  perplexity  is  decision," 
said  poor  Re'ne'e,  resolutely. 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  but  our  perplexity  is  often  the 
result  of  too  much  thinking.  Wait  a  little,  and 
let  your  mind  rest.  Do  you  accept  my  plan  ?  " 

"  It  seems  a  perfect  dream  to  me." 

"  Well,  then,  we  will  realize  it.  When  can  you 
get  ready  ?  " 

"  I  am  all  ready,  —  that  is,  there  are  only  a  few 


BUT   YET  A    WOMAN.  118 

little   things,  —  one   of   them    is   to   tell  M.   Mi 
chel." 

"  Do  his  friends  come  as  usual,  on  Saturday  ?  " 
"  I  had  not  thought  of  it ;  we  are  only  just  ar 
rived  ;  no  one  knows  it." 

"  If  you  go,  it  hardly  seems  worth  the  while. 
Suppose  you  should  suggest  to  him  that  he  invite 
those  who  were  at  Beauvais,  and  perhaps  one   or 
two  more,  and  wait  until  you  return  to  commence 
his  usual  receptions.     I  am  anxious  to  go  at  once. 
If  you  send  your  invitations  to-morrow,  perhaps 
we  shall  be  able  to  start  on  Monday.     I  shall  take 
Lizette,  and  she  will  answer  for  both  of  us.     How 
little   luggage  can   you   take?     I  will    show   you 
what  restrictions  I  put  upon  myself,  if  you  can 
come  to  see  me  to-morrow." 
"  At  what  hour?" 
"  At  any  time  in  the  afternoon." 
"And  what  about  Madame  Valfort?" 
"  You  will  do  as  you  please,  of  course  ;  but  if 
you  ask  my  advice,  it  would  be  to  leave  it  with 
me.     You  can  hardly  see  her  without  raising  the 
very  question  you  wish  to  avoid,  while  I  can  ar 
range  it  without  her  even  thinking  of  it." 

"  You  make  all  the  difficulties  vanish,"  said 
Renee,  lifting  her  head  and  looking  up  into  the 
face  above  her. 

"  Often,  dear,  they  are  only  imaginary,  and 
sometimes  our  best  road  lies  round  them,  not 
over  them." 

8 


114  BUT  YET  A    WOMAN. 

Just  then  the  library  door  opened,  and  M. 
Michel  appeared  on  the  threshold,  the  gold  rim  of 
his  spectacles  shining  in  his  gray  hair. 

"  Why,  sister,  is  it  you?"  he  said,  advancing 
to  greet  her ;  "  what  a  charming  tableau  !  " 

Rende  was  still  sitting  at  Stephanie's  feet,  her 
elbows  in  her  lap,  and  her  head  resting  in  her 
hands. 

"  Baptiste  did  not  tell  me  you  were  here." 

"  No,  I  did  not  ask  him  to.  I  wished  to  ap 
proach  you  by  a  flank  movement." 

"  By  a  flank  movement  ?  "  he  said,  looking  from 
one  pair  of  bright  eyes  to  the  other ;  "  I  capitu 
late  beforehand." 

As,  in  fact,  he  did  ;  and  when  Rende  fell  asleep 
that  night,  it  was  to  build  veritable  castles  in 
Spain. 


BUT  YET  A   WOMAN.  115 


VHI. 

STEPHANIE  had  not  forsaken  the  pleasant  party 
at  Beauvais  simply  to  revisit  Kief,  and  the  epi 
sode  at  Aix  might  have  enabled  Roger  to  answer 
Renee's  question  better  than  M.  Michel.  While 
the  latter  had  been  writing  history,  Madame  Mi- 
levski  had  had  some  share  in  making  it,  and  had 
narrowly  escaped  playing  therein  an  important 
part. 

The  political  situation  in  France  at  this  time 
was  disturbed  and  perplexing.  The  humiliation 
of  a  disastrous  war,  the  bitterness  of  a  terrible 
civil  strife,  were  still  fresh  in  the  public  mind. 
The  tread  of  a  foreign  host  had  scarcely  died 
upon  the  ear,  and  ruins,  yet  blackened  by  smoke 
and  torn  by  shells,  met  the  eye  in  the  very  centre 
of  the  capital. 

Republican  for  eighty  years,  France  still  worked 
persistently  at  the  gigantic  task  of  organization. 
But  for  a  moment  progress  again  seemed  doomed 
to  another  check,  and  once  more  France  faltered 
between  her  traditions  and  her  aspirations. 

In  the  Assembly,  factions  were  numerous.  They 
formed  and  reformed  about  important  measures, 
like  the  battalions  of  an  army  about  its  stand- 


116  BUT  YET  A   WOMAN1. 

ards  ;  ever  in  motion,  but  without  making  progress* 
A  vote  was  the  vote  of  a  coalition  ;  a  coalition 
which  straightway  thereafter  fell  asunder.  There 
were  those  who  still  rallied  round  the  eagles  of 
that  great  comedian  whose  feet,  from  Boulogne  to 
Sedan,  were  wet  with  blood ;  there  were  still 
those  who  uncovered  their  heads  before  the  re 
cluse  of  Frohsdorf,  and  asserted  the  divine  right 
of  kings  ;  there  were  the  personal  adherents  of 
the  princes  and  the  constitutional  monarchy,  the 
fanatical  devotees  to  the  radical  republic,  and 
that  old  guard  of  democratic  conservatism,  the 
flower  of  French  politics,  which  stood  firm  amid 
this  chaos  around  the  "  liberator  of  the  terri 
tory." 

Fused  for  a  moment  by  a  common  hate,  all 
these  factions  save  one  had  united  against  the 
common  enemy,  the  conservative  republic,  and  M. 
Thiers  was  overthrown  in  May  by  the  Assembly 
which  had  apotheosized  him  in  March. 

In  the  name  of  order  and  public  security,  evok 
ing  the  red  spectre  of  revolution  before  a  peo 
ple  which  had  not  yet  forgotten  the  horrors  of 
the  Commune,  this  coalition  had  called  to  the^ 
presidency  a  tried  soldier,  whose  disinterestedness 
and  nobility  of  character  were  unquestioned. 
But  this  coalition,  held  together  only  by  a  com 
mon  animosity,  was  destitute  of  principles,  and 
therefore  had  no  programme.  Successful  in  its  at 
tempt  to  overload  the  Left  Centre  with  the  follies 


BUT  YET  A   WOMAN.  117 

and  crimes  of  the  extreme  republican  wing,  it  had 
awakened  the  fears  of  the  people  by  the  old  rally 
ing  cry  of  "  social  order."  But  the  people  asked, 
What  next  ?  Conservatism,  on  the  24th,  meant 
social  order ;  but  on  the  25th  it  might  mean  the 
monarchy  or  the  empire.  Fused  for  a  day,  after 
the  skirmish  the  coalition  segregated  about  the 
old  centres.  The  Assembly  had  adjourned  ;  the 
people  watched  and  waited. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  one,  who  for  years  had 
been  forgotten,  was  remembered,  —  the  First 
Gentleman  of  France, — and  that  words  almost 
lost  to  memory  were  repeated  on  every  lip,  —  the 
legitimate  monarchy  and  Henri  Cinq.  This  reac 
tion  was  intensified,  after  the  adjournment,  by 
many  favoring  influences.  The  cry,  "  Beware  the 
Red  Spectre ! "  had  a  temporary  success ;  the 
horrors  of  the  Commune,  the  follies  of  the  radicals, 
the  errors  of  the  republic  itself,  inspired  fear;  ru 
mors  of  another  Bonapartist  coup  d'etat  filled  the 
public  heart  with  uncertainty  ;  the  Orleans  princes, 
representing  the  constitutional  monarchy,  had 
given  in  their  allegiance  to  their  chief,  and  the 
royal  house  of  France  was  again  united  under  its 
legitimate  head  ;  satisfactory  guaranties  were  ru 
mored  abroad,  —  that  the  rights  acquired  by  the 
Revolution  would  be  respected  by  the  throne,  — 
liberty  of  the  press,  universal  suffrage,  the  right 
of  assembly  ;  the  fleur-de-lys  was  to  be  blazoned 
on  the  tri-color  of  the  Revolution  ;  moreover,  it 


118  BUT  YET  A   WOMAN. 

was  the  season  of  pilgrimages  to  Lourdes,  to  La 
Salette,  pilgrimages  not  altogether  destitute  of 
political  significance ;  the  vieille  noblesse  emerged 
from  the  retirement  into  which,  during  the  empire, 
pride  and  disgust  had  led  them  ;  while  lovers  of 
tranquillity,  who  had  money  in  their  stockings, 
hesitated  between  the  uncertain  stability  of  the  re 
public  and  these  promises  of  a  liberal  monarchy. 

On  the  5th  of  August  took  place  that  interview 
between  the  French  princes  which  brought  the 
slowly  elaborated  plans  of  the  royalists  to  that 
point  at  which  they  must  either  succeed  or  mis 
carry. 

It  was  the  day  before  Stephanie  Milevski  re 
ceived  her  summons  to  Paris.  On  the  7th,  at 
eleven  in  the  morning,  she  reached  the  city,  and 
drove  to  her  hotel  in  the  Boulevard  St.  Germain  ; 
and,  still  in  her  traveling  dress,  without  ascend 
ing  to  her  own  rooms,  she  entered  the  door  of  the 
salon,  where  a  half  score  of  gentlemen  waited  to 
receive  her. 

During  the  period  of  royalist  revival  there 
were  numerous  salons  famous  as  the  rendezvous 
of  the  monarchical  party,  and  having  a  certain 
political  significance.  They  were  graced  by  the 
presence  of  party  chiefs,  of  church  dignitaries,  of 
the  representatives  of  the  old  nobility.  They 
were  the  foci  of  attraction  for  all  who  dared  to 
hope,  for  the  king;  their  themes  of  conversation 
were  the  restoration,  the  salvation  of  France,  and 


BUT  YET  A  WOMAN.  119 

the  triumph  of  the  Church  over  her  enemies. 
But  there  was  another,  frequented  by  few,  un 
known  to  the  many,  whence  had  secretly  ema 
nated  many  of  those  favoring  influences  which  had 
once  more  turned  the  public  eye  in  the  direction 
of  Frohsdorf,  composed  of  a  small  circle  of  sec 
ondary  but  important  personages,  inspired  by  and 
under  the  direction  of  the  great  chiefs,  instruments 
in  their  hands,  yet  not  passive  ones,  in  the  forma 
tion  of  public  opinion  and  the  shaping  of  public 
events.  It  was  a  small  but  select  circle  of  men, 
devoted,  intelligent,  resolute ;  it  comprised  a  gen 
eral  of  the  army,  an  emissary  of  the  Order  of 
Jesus,  deputies  of  the  Assembly,  and  journalists, 
—  among  the  latter,  M.  de  Marzac.  For  more 
than  a  year  since  first  the  glittering  structure  of 
the  empire  began  to  give  evidence  of  that  rotten 
ness  which  predetermined  its  sudden  collapse,  this 
company,  united  by  a  common  aspiration,  had 
planned  and  waited.  Personally  known  to  their 
chiefs,  but  acting  without  compromising  mandate 
or  authority,  they  had  gradually  passed  from  the 
stage  of  loyal  supporters  to  that  of  active  agents. 
On  the  morning  of  August  7th  they  had  been 
charged  with  a  special  mission  ;  none  other  than 
the  preparations  for  the  entry  of  the  king  into  his 
capital.  The  hour  for  action  was  approaching, 
and  the  plan  was  as  follows :  — 

The  king  was  to  proceed  incognito  to  Versailles 
End  remain  in  seclusion ;  at  a  favorable  moment, 


120  BUT  YET  A    WOMAN. 

when  the  tide  was  highest,  he  was  to  gather  about 
him  the  House  of  France,  and  appeal  to  the  na 
tion  ;  the  president  was  pledged  to  maintain  order 
and  execute  the  will  of  the  Assembly  ;  the  people 
wavered  between  fear  of  anarchy  and  love  for 
pence  ;  it  needed  only,  therefore,  that,  at  such  an 
auspicious  moment,  the  king  himself,  with  his 
Buite  and  generals,  should  enter  the  gates  of  Paris, 
that  France  herself  should  recognize  him  as  her 
safety,  and  resound  once  more  to  the  echoes  of 
that  old  cry,  "  Vive  le  roi  !  " 

This  plan,  fully  matured  in  all  its  details,  was 
not  to  be  submitted  to  the  approval  of  the  king 
till  the  decisive  hour  had  come.  Subject  to  con 
tingencies,  it  might  even  be  abandoned.  This 
reticence  on  the  part  of  the  conspirators  towards 
the  chief  actor  proceeded  from  uncertainty  as  to 
his  own  preferences.  It  was  a  resource  to  be 
held  in  reserve  for  the  time  when,  if  lie  had  not 
himself  already  taken  the  initiative,  there  would 
be  no  choice  save  between  it  and  failure.  Nothing 
indeed  had  been  more  remarkable  in  the  history 
of  this  illustrious  exile  than  the  calm  assumption 
of  his  divine  rights  and  the  complete  absence  of 
all  thirst  for  power.  He  had  waited,  incapable  of 
intrigue  ;  the  king,  but  never  the  pretender. 

The  summer  passed  in  uncertainty  and  nervous 
ness.  The  tone  of  the  radical  press  served  to  in 
tensify  the  reaction.  Further  concessions  to  the 
spirit  of  the  Revolution  inclined  the  people  still 


BUT   YET  A    WOMAN.  121 

more  to  listen  to  the  promise  of  a  wise  and  stable 
administration.  The  Assembly  was  to  convene 
early  in  the  autumn.  It  seemed  best  to  take  the 
tide  at  the  flood,  and  to  profit  alike  by  the  conser 
vative  union  and  the  political  uncertainties  which 
the  opening  of  the  Assembly  might  dispel,  It  was 
decided,  therefore,  to  force  the  issue  and  to  sound 
the  king  through  an  emissary  to  Frohsdorf. 

"  I  am  going,"  Stephanie  had  written  to  Re'nee, 
late  in  September,  "  to  make  a  little  journey. 
You  will  soon  return  to  Paris.  I  also.  We  will 
then  talk  together." 

There  were  reasons,  both  in  the  character  of  the 
king  and  in  the  history  of  Stephanie's  family,  why 
she,  a  woman,  was  selected  for  this  mission.  Her 
mother,  Rose  de  Vigny,  was  the  daughter  of  a 
leader  in  the  war  of  La  Vendee,  who  yielded  to 
none  of  nobler  blood  in  the  fervor  of  his  devotion 
to  the  cause  in  which  he  at  last  laid  down  his  life. 
To  Rose  his  only  legacy  was  his  uncompromising 
character,  which  she  in  turn  had  transmitted  to 
her  daughter,  purified  but  unimpaired.  Sent  into 
Russia  for  safety  while  a  child,  Rose's  only  mem 
ory  of  her  father  was  that  of  his  exploits  in  the 
field  and  his  last  words  on  the  scaffold  :  "  I  com 
mit  my  soul  to  God,  whom  I  do  not  fear,  and  my 
daughter  to  the  king  whom  I  serve." 

But  it  was  an  age  when  royalty  was  no  longer 
able  to  pay  its  debts,  and  the  daughter  of  De 
Vigny  would  have  died  unremembered  had  not 


122  BUT   YET  A    WOMAN. 

M.  Michel's  father,  who  had  abandoned  France  on 
the  fall  of  Charles  X.,  found  bis  fair  countrywoman 
living  in  poverty  with  an  aged  aunt  in  Kief,  where 
he  had  taken  up  his  abode.  M.  Michel  married 
her,  —  the  phrase  is  apt,  —  and  if  she  was  not 
altogether  happy,  it  was  not  his  fault,  nor  hers. 
Disparity  of  years  is  like  a  grain  of  sand  between 
the  axle  and  the  bed,  which,  harder  than  either, 
cannot  be  gotten  rid  of,  and  scores  its  furrow  in 
spite  of  the  best  lubricants.  But  God  provides  a 
recompense  for  this,  and  worse  evils  ;  he  had  given 
Rose  Michel  a  daughter.  Poverty  and  exile  had 
reduced  her  life  to  a  cipher ;  when  Stephanie 
came,  God  wrote  a  figure  before  it,  and  gave  it 
value  ;  and  in  this  daughter  Rose  watched  for  all 
those  qualities  which  she  associated  with  the  mem 
ory  of  her  father,  and  in  this  young  shoot  her  hope 
foresaw  the  blossom  and  the  fruit  of  her  own  bar* 
ren  tree. 

Soon  after  Stephanie's  birth,  M.  Michel's  death 
left  Rose  a  large  fortune.  Upon  the  soil  of  France 
she  had  resolved  never  again  to  step  ;  and  it  was 
with  some  reluctance,  and  no  little  heroism,  that 
she  parted  from  her  daughter,  and  sent  her  to 
Paris,  to  be  educated  under  the  care  of  her 
brother. 

When,  after  the  completion  of  her  education, 
Stephanie  was  summoned  from  Paris  to  Kief,  it 
was  for  the  express  purpose  of  being  given  away  ; 
and  all  the  world  admitted  that  madame,  her 


BUT  YET  A    WOMAN.  123 

mother,  had  made  a  judicious  and  fortunate  selec 
tion.  As  for  the  Count  Milevski,  he  had  barely 
been  presented  to  the  person  thus,  selected  for  him 
unawares  before  he  lost  his  heart ;  there  were  de 
signing  matrons  to  aver  that  he  lost  his  head  at 
the  same  time,  for  Stdphanie  Michel  was  not  his 
peer  in  lineage.  But  the  count,  who-  wits  an  en 
thusiast,  thought  of  but  one  thing  at  a-  time,  and 
this  young  girl,  fresh  from  her  Paris  convent,  with 
her  alternate  moods  of  dignity  and  radiant  com 
radeship,  reduced  the  diplomacy  of  match-making 
to  the  mere  minimum  of  a  presentation. 

Father  Le  Blanc  had  said  of  Madame  Milevski, 
when,  after  an  interval  of  sudden  and  sharp  expe 
rience,  —  marriage,  death,  and  retirement,  —  she 
reappeared  at  Paris :  "  Whether  the  sky  be  clear 
or  full  of  clouds,  the  stars  continue  to  rise  tran 
quilly  ;  she  is  one  of  them,  and  has  a  destiny  to 
accomplish."  Father  Le  Blanc's  simile  was  not  an 
unhappy  one  ;  but  had  he  seen  her  at  Kief  in  those 
earlier  days,  how  might  he  have  likened  her  to  a 
very  star  indeed,  when,  newborn,  its  exultant 
pulse  of  light  throbs  in  the  rose-blue  of  the  twi 
light  sky  ! 

Stephanie  had  dreamed  some  dreams  in  her  con 
vent  school  at  Paris ;  and,  like  all  first  dreams,  they 
contained  a  supernatural  element.  In  some  out 
ward  respects  tney  were  surpassed  by  the  reality. 
The  count  made  a  good  prince,  and  the  wedding 
at  Kief  was  a  page  from  the  Arabian  Nights,  even 


124  BUT  YET   A    WOMAN. 

if  M.  Michel  had  pronounced  it  like  all  others. 
Her  lover  had  been  devoted,  her  husband  gene 
rous  and  kind.  Still  she  was  conscious  that  some 
thing  was  lacking,  of  falling  short  of  her  capaci 
ties.  One  might  have  enumerated  to  her  all  her 
blessings  and  privileges,  still  she  would  have  asked 
in  secret,  as  if  the  one  essential  thing  was  absent, 
"  Is  this  then  all  ?  " 

Certainly  there  is  this  disadvantage  in  the  mar 
riage  system  to  which  Stephanie  had  been  an  offer 
ing,  that  it  reveals  what  it  does  not  always  give, 
—  love.  It  is  often  a  stage  trick,  wherein  the 
only  dupe  is  the  chief  personage,  who  believes  all 
is  reality,  and  wakes  to  find  herself  also  one  of 
the  actors  in  a  comedy.  What  wonder,  after  hav 
ing  seen  all  the  court  assembled,  and  every  puppet 
in  its  place  go  through  with  its  part  in  the  cer 
emony  ;  what  wonder,  after  having  discovered 
what  love  might  be  and  found  an  alien  on  the 
throne,  this  comedy  should  turn  into  a  tragedy  on 
the  arrival  of  the  king  who  comes  to  claim  his 
own  ! 

The  experiences  through  which  Stephanie  had 
passed  developed  her  suddenly.  There  are  pe 
riods  in  life  when  circumstances  conspire  to  a 
growth  rapid  as  that  of  a  week  in  May ;  when 
influences  focus  and  work  sudden  transformations. 
A  grief,  a  disappointment,  a  success,  is  a  new 
lens  to  the  eye,  changing  the  entire  aspect  of  na 
ture.  The  world  spoke  of  Madame  Milevski's 


BUT   YET  A    WOMAN.  125 

affliction  without  in  the  least  understanding  it. 
Conceding  the  count  to  have  possessed  all  which 
should  make  his  loss  an  irreparable  one,  it  was 
still  true  that  he  personally  counted  for  little  in 
her  feelings.  We  love  the  virtues,  but  we  do  not 
fall  in  love  with  them.  They  confirm  and  nur 
ture  love,  but  at  Stephanie's  age  they  do  not  give 
it  birth.  Other  mothers  than  hers  have  secured 
in  their  white-haired  years  model  husbands  for 
their  daughters,  as  if  there  were  no  subtler  in 
fluences  in  nature  than  those  of  sober  worthiness 
and  eminent  propriety.  But  if  Love  is  blind,  it 
is  because  Nature,  who  will  not  risk  the  life  of 
the  race  on  sober  second  thoughts,  is  not.  We 
may  sip  the  wine  of  a  forty  years'  experience  and 
descant  wisely  the  while  with  Joan,  who  fortu 
nately  possessed  the  seven  cardinal  virtues  ;  but 
Florimel  will  still  sing  beneath  Phyllis'  window 
panes,  and,  after  leading  our  Chloe  up  to  the  per 
fect  paragon,  we  discover  that  she  is  looking  over 
her  shoulder,  and  that  the  magnet  is  in  another 
quarter. 

The  world  pitied  Stephanie  as  one  who  had  lost 
the  earthly  paradise ;  and  not  one  of  all  its  dupes 
read  aright  this  serious-eyed  woman,  who  saw  be 
neath  the  dominos  and  could  not  feed  on  illusions. 
The  show  was  well  enough,  the  fiction  well  sus 
tained  ;  the  trouble  lay  in  this  all  too  serious  spec 
tator,  who  came  like  an  intruder  into  the  midst 
of  a  joyous  carnival.  The  revelers  could  not 


126  BUT  YET  A  WOMAN. 

gauge  the  heart  of  this  alien,  in  which,  as  the 
mists  of  illusion  rolled  away,  there  remained  the 
conscious  capacity  to  be  and  to  make  the  great 
reality  of  this  caricature. 

The  death  of  Madame  Michel,  occurring  shortly 
after  that  of  her  son-in-law,  prolonged  and  deep 
ened  Stephanie's  seclusion.  This  was  a  real  and 
serious  loss,  for,  though  long  separated  from  her 
by  school  life  in  Paris,  absence  does  not  strain  or 
sever  the  bond  of  a  mother's  love  ;  and  no  one 
shall  ever  know  what  sacred  communion  these 
two  held  in  those  silent  days  when  the  house  at 
Kief  was  closed  to  visitors  and  the  mother's  health 
was  failing.  Madame  Michel  herself  could  re 
member  spring  days,  and  although  she  had  long 
since  learned  to  take  life  as  she  found  it,  and  had 
been  less  rebellious  than  her  child,  misgivings  arose 
in  these  closing  hours ;  there  was  a  resurrection  of 
some  forgotten  things  that  had  been  put  away 
with  her  wedding  slippers,  and  her  last  look  at 
the  world  was  through  the  eyes  of  her  daughter. 
As  she  grew  more  feeble,  her  anxiety  for  this 
child  (whom  she  could  not  believe  to  be  a  woman, 
and  who,  alas  !  if  she  were,  was  only  one  woman, 
beginning  life  alone)  increased.  When  the  thought 
first  came  clearly  before  her,  that  she  was  soon  to 
leave  Stephanie,  not  for  a  time,  or  even  a  long 
time,  but  forever,  she  was  utterly  overwhelmed. 
But  before  she  died  this  fever  of  solicitude  and 
apprehension  gradually  wore  away,  as  she  saw  the 


BUT  YET  A    WOMAN.  127 

silent  development  of  a  self-reliance  which  had  its 
origin  at  once  in  sadness,  indifference,  and  the 
pride  of  race.  Sitting  in  her  sick-chair  at  the 
window,  in  the  summer  nights  of  her  last  illness, 
her  daughter's  hand  in  hers,  Stephanie's  wide  eyes 
fascinated  her  more  than  the  stars;  many  a  time 
her  own  sought  them  furtively  and  wonderingly, 
and  they  filled  her  heart  with  both  peace  and 
awe. 

At  the  death  of  madame,  M.  Michel  had  gone 
to  Kief  again,  and  had  unhesitatingly  urged  Ste 
phanie  to  return  with  him  to  Paris.  The  thought 
of  leaving  her  alone  in  that  great  house  troubled 
him.  He  had  a  vague  idea  that  Paris  possessed 
the  balm  for  all  wounds  ;  a  curious,  almost  pa 
thetic  compound  of  his  salon,  a  walk  in  the  Bois, 
a  month  of  Beauvais'  quiet  and  boxes  of  bonbons, 
plus  Renee  and  himself,  constituted  the  relief  in 
this  case,  and  he  shook  his  head  and  sighed  be 
tween  Kief  and  Paris  as  many  times  as  there 
were  stations,  over  the  refusal  of  his  young  step 
sister. 

But  Stephanie  followed  her  bent.  She  enjoyed 
solitude  as  one  who  has  so  many  things  to  think 
of,  so  many  questions  to  settle,  that  it  is  indis 
pensable.  She  felt  as  if  she  had  escaped  from  the 
toils  of  a  vast  net,  from  the  pressure  of  a  great 
throng,  and,  like  a  planet  broken  loose  from  its 
system  and  freed  from  all  restraints,  she  went  her 
way  through  the  immense  and  lonely  spaces  of 


128  BUT  YET  A    WOMAN. 

her  own  thoughts  with  a  sense  of  independence 
and  freedom. 

As  the  months  wore  away,  however,  this  unnat 
ural  existence  stole  the  color  from  her  cheeks. 
One  day  an  old  physician,  who  had  attended  her 
•-ii other  and  whom  she  often  met  in  the  visits  of 
charity  which  occupied  much  of  her  time,  —  one 
of  those  homely  country  practitioners  who  make 
up  their  arrearage  in  science  by  a  big  heart,  large 
sense,  and  wide  experience,  —  advised  her  to  travel. 
Madame  la  Comtesse,  as  he  persisted  in  calling 
her  notwithstanding  the  imperial  edict,  should 
take  her  maid  and  go  to  Nice,  —  to  a  thousand 
places  of  which  this  somewhat  rusty  old  gentle 
man  would  not  be  suspected  of  knowing.  But 
though  he  had  the  appearance  of  a  moss-grown 
stone  which  had  seen  the  building  of  Kief,  he  had 
rolled  over  many  lands  before  gathering  his  moss, 
and  knew  how  to  open  up  the  horizons  of  travel 
to  Stephanie's  eyes. 

When  she  yielded,  and  set  out  from  Kief,  she 
thought  to  preserve  her  incognito,  and  to  carry 
the  cloud  of  solitude  with  her.  But  the  star  was 
too  bright  to  be  so  hidden.  Moreover,  society  had 
not  lost  sight  of  her;  her  name  revived  the  story 
of  her  marriage  and  memories  of  La  Vendee.  The 
circle  into  which  that  marriage  had  introduced 
her  was  a  large  one  ;  one,  too,  which  does  not  for 
get  wealth  and  beauty  even  in  misfortune.  No 
sooner  had  she  set  foot  within  its  precincts  than 


BUT  YET  A  WOMAN.  129 

it  sought  to  reclaim  her.  At  A the  wife  of 

M.  P called  upon  her ;  and  at  B her 

name  was  added  to  the  invitation  list  of  Madame 
la  Princesse  X .  Lizette's  duties  began  to  in 
crease,  and  she  sometimes  secretly  found  fault 
with  madarne  for  the  indifference  she  evinced  for 
the  flowers  laid  on  her  dressing-table. 

At  Vienna  she  became  acquainted  with  a  French 
colony  of  those  voluntary  exiles  to  whom  France 
with  the  empire  was  not  France  at  all,  and  with 
certain  pilgrims  to  the  shrine  of  Frohsdorf.  Maj 
esty  itself,  though  fallen  from  its  high  estate,  had 
not  lost  the  habit  of  blessing,  and  was  very  gra 
cious  to  her. 

The  tranquil  atmosphere  of  this  miniature  court, 
its  sense  of  superiority  and  calm,  revived  in  this 
heart  riot  yet  full  grown,  stunned  but  not  broken, 
something  of  its  old  faith  in  the  world  and  its  love 
of  life.  Kief,  which  she  had  thought  never  to 
leave,  and  which  she  at  first  kept  in  mind  as  a 
refuge,  was  less  frequently  remembered,  and,  as  is 
often  the  case,  having  once  fairly  broken  with 
her  surroundings,  she  looked  back  with  dread  to 
that  silent  house,  the  very  memory  of  which  awak' 
ened  so  sad  a  train  of  recollections.  She  had  be 
gun  to  forget  them,  — and  to  desire  forgetfulness. 

Afterwards,  on  establishing  herself  in  Paris,  she 
fell  naturally  into  the  same  circle  and  under  the 
same  influences,  and  when  the  events  which  at 
tended  the  breaking  up  of  the  empire  and  its  fall 


130  BUT  YET  A  WOMAN. 

gave  shape  and  life  to  the  long  dormant  projects 
for  a  restoration,  she  yielded  to  them  with  an  en 
thusiasm  and  interest  which  at  times  brought  a 
smile  of  fine  irony  to  her  own  face.  Perhaps  even 
more  than  her  position,  her  wealth,  her  standing 
at  Frohsdorf,  and  the  episode  of  La  Vendee,  her 
peculiar  influence  and  personal  magnetism  had  des 
ignated  her  as  a  leader  in  the  Paris  intrigue,  and 
had  led  to  her  selection  for  the  task  of  persuading 
the  king.  This  personal  power  gave  her  a  kind 
of  pleasure.  Father  Le  Blanc  was  rightly  puzzled, 
for  she  was  at  a  turning  point,  when  it  was  a  ques 
tion  what  things  in  life  were  to  engross  her,  what 
her  mission  was  to  be,  into  what  definite  and  final 
unit  the  elements  of  her  character  were  to  group 
themselves  under  the  forces  of  experience  and  cir 
cumstance.  This  was  the  mystery  which  had  both 
interested  and  perplexed  him,  as  also  Roger  Lande. 
The  etiquette  of  Frohsdorf  was  simple  but  se 
vere.  Its  inmate,  readily  accessible  to  all  French 
men,  fulfilled  to  the  letter  the  role  of  king.  All 
were  his  subjects  upon  whom  he  looked,  as  upon 
France,  with  the  love  and  pity  of  a  true  monarch. 
But  the  granddaughter  of  De  Vigny  possessed 
titles  to  more  than  ordinary  favor.  Young,  beau 
tiful,  courageous,  simple  and  frank  in  manner,  she 
had  made  a  deep  impression  upon  him  during  the 
sojourn  of  the  previous  winter  in  Vienna,  and  her 
reappearance  at  Frohsdorf  awakened  emotions 
plainly  visible  on  the  calm  but  indolent  face  of 


BUT  YET  A   WOMAN.  131 

the  Bourbon.  Her  eyes,  never  free  from  a  trace 
of  melancholy,  were  lighted  by  an  unusual  fire. 

He  addressed  her  kindly,  holding  in  his  hand 
the  papers  which  she  had  presented  to  him.  They 
contained  the  details  of  the  plan  and  the  assur 
ances  of  success.  They  sketched  briefly  and  rap 
idly  the  state  of  affairs,  the  readiness  of  the  peo 
ple,  the  hopes  of  old  France.  They  contained  the 
prayers  of  the  Church,  the  oaths  of  an  army,  the 
pledges  of  the  nobility.  As  opening  them  he  began 
to  read,  a  shade  of  annoyance  passed  over  his  face, 
succeeded  by  a  look  of  mingled  pity,  weariness, 
and  dignity.  Then  he  laid  them  on  the  table-, 
and  regarded  her  with  that  air  of  sympathy  and 
authority  which  he  had  so  often  breathed  into  his 
letters. 

44  All  this  is  impossible." 

"  Sire,"  said  Stephanie,  who  misconceived  his 
meaning,  "  I  come  to  bring  you  the  devotion  of 
faithful  servants,  and  to  such  nothing  is  impossi 
ble." 

44  I  repeat  it,  it  is  impossible,"  he  said ;  and, 
taking  from  the  table  a  letter,  he  extended  it  to 
her.  She  took  it  from  his  hand. 

44  Read  it,"  he  said. 

It  was  that  last  and  famous  letter,  in  which, 
with  the  serenity  of  unalterable  conviction,  the 
Count  de  Chambord  ignored  the  work  of  the  Rev 
olution  without  deigning  to  argue,  and  declared 
that  as  there  was  no  other  flag  than  that  white 


132  BUT  YET  A  WOMAN. 

one  which  he  had  received  from  the  hands  of  Henry 
the  Fourth,  so  there  was  no  monarchy  beside  that 
which  comes  not  from  the  people  but  from  God ; 
that  letter  replete  with  the  pride,  not  of  arro 
gance  but  of  calm,  which  caused  the  royalist 
camp,  so  formidable,  so  gay  with  hope  and  prom 
ise,  to  melt  away  in  a  day  from  the  political  arena, 
and  left  its  chief,  like  a  feudal  castle  in  the  midst 
of  modern  civilization,  a  relic  of  the  past  and  an 
object  only  of  curiosity. 

"  Sire,"  said  Stephanie,  "  it  is  an  abdication." 
u  The  monarchy  of  France,"  he  continued  tran 
quilly,  as  if  not  hearing  her,  "  is  not  only  a  po 
litical  institution,  it  is  a  religion.  The  throne  is 
not  the  gift  of  the  nation  nor  a  prize  for  the  am 
bitious,  and  he  who  ascends  it  assists,  as  did  my 
ancestors,  at  a  sacrament  of  Heaven.  France  is 
not  yet  ready  for  the  king,  and  the  king  cannot 
be  controlled.  She  still  suffers  from  the  frenzy 
and  the  stupor  of  the  Revolution,  when  in  hu 
miliating  so  cruelly  her  appointed  head  she  hu 
miliated  herself.  To-day,  like  a  drunken  man,  the 
fumes  of  license  and  scepticism  obscure  her  vision ; 
she  still  vacillates  and  suffers.  God  grant  the  ex 
piation  of  her  sins  may  soon  be  finished  !  But  she 
is  still  troubled  and  agitated.  The  king  is  not 
the  head  of  a  privileged  class  whom  you  might 
represent  to  me,  but  of  France.  And  France, 
countess,  yet  wishes  to  impose  conditions  upon  her 
savior.  The  trust  which  I  received  from  my 


BUT   YET  A   WOMAN.  133 

ancestors  cannot  be  thus  dishonored.  When  it 
shall  rippear  sacred  to  France  as  to  me  ;  when  the 
illusions  of  the  present  shall  have  disappeared  and 
she  perceives  the  hollo wn ess  of  all  she  now  in 
vokes,  she  will  herself  demand  without  reserve  the 
regime  she  has  dishonored,  and  will  recognize  that 
only  in  the  stainless  standard  which  I  represent 
can  she  find  true  security  and  true  liberty.  Do 
not  permit  your  desires  to  delude  you.  Repub 
lican  institutions  cannot  take  root  in  a  monarch 
ical  soil.  The  marriage  of  two  such  principles 
would  be  monstrous.  Bear  to  the  noble  defenders 
of  my  cause  my  profound  esteem.  I  am  proud  of 
them,  for  they  are  France.  In  these  sad  days  it 
is  sweet  to  me  to  remember  their  faithfulness,  and 
to  assure  them  of  my  constant  friendship.  And 
if  you  do  not  survive  these  times,  when  so  long 
you  have  stood  in  the  breach  without  truce  or  re 
pose,  God  will  yet  reward  you,  my  child." 

Stephanie  listened  to  these  words  overwhelmed 
with  dismay  and  astonishment.  Carried  away  by 
her  hopes,  she,  with  others,  had  forgotten  the  un 
alterable  convictions  of  the  king. 

"  I  was  not  thinking  of  rewards,  but  of  France, 
sire." 

From  this  interview  she  came  out  as  one  rudely 
shaken  awakes  from  a  dream.  No  further  illusion 
was  possible.  All  was  over.  Yet  she  could  not 
bring  herself  to  reproach  the  king.  Differing  from 
him  in  her  views  as  she  did  profoundly,  in  this 


134  BUT  YET  A   WOMAN. 

act  there   was  nothing  unkingly,  and   too  much 
self-abnegation  for  the  suspicion  of  cowardice. 

All  the  way  back  in  her  long  ride  from  Vienna, 
she  saw  this  edifice,  so  long  prepared  and  so  ma 
jestic,  crumbling  again  and  again  before  her  eyes. 
Once,  two  fellow-travelers,  conversing  over  a  news 
paper,  aroused  her. 

"  It  seems  Henri  Cinq  has  committed  suicide," 
said  one. 

"  Well,  what  difference  does  it  make  !  "  rejoined 
the  other.  "  Monks  no  longer  rule  the  world  from 
monasteries." 

She  looked  from  her  window  upon  the  shifting 
landscape,  but  observed  nothing ;  all  seemed  a 
blank.  So  long  intent  on  one  object,  her  mind 
possessed  no  rallying  centre  of  thought  when  that 
object  was  withdrawn  :  so  long  filled  with  one 
figure,  her  vision  seemed  to  gaze  upon  vacancy. 
She  recurred  again  and  again  to  the  old  theme, 
only  to  find  it  elude  her  very  thoughts.  Yet  no 
deep  personal  interest  underlay  her  disappoint 
ment.  This  failure  did  not  compromise  her,  had 
not  ruined  her  ;  but  it  had  taken  out  of  her  life 
the  one  absorbing  object  of  thought  and  activity 
which  had  long  occupied  it,  and  as  the  distance 
from  Vienna  increased,  she  dwelt  more  and  more 
upon  this  and  less  upon  the  king.  A  sense  of 
personal  isolation  took  possession  of  her.  Had 
she  lived  so  much  upon  this  intrigue  that  the  se 
cret  of  its  enjoyment  had  been  self-forgetf ulness  f 


BUT  YET  A   WOMAN.  135 

"  It  would  be  all  the  same,"  she  said  to  herself, 
"  had  we  succeeded.  It  was  the  pleasure  of  the 
chase ;  in  either  case,  success  or  failure,  I  should 
have  been  left  alone  at  last  with  myself." 

She  arrived  late  in  Paris.  It  was  a  clear  night. 
The  streets  were  full  of  people  and  carriages.  The 
lights  of  the  lamps  and  the  cafe's  were  never 
brighter.  But  an  aspect  of  unreality  pervaded 
everything.  The  carriage  taken  at  the  station 
moved  through  all  these  lights  and  sounds  with 
a  horrible  slowness.  The  night  was  warm,  but 
her  hands  were  cold.  She  was  obliged  to  wait  at 
the  door  of  her  hotel,  for  the  porter  did  not  ex 
pect  her.  There  was  a  carriage  before  it  which 
she  did  not  notice.  To  the  servant  who  opened 
the  inner  door  she  said,  "Send  me  Lizette."  He 
followed  her  as  if  he  had  something  to  say  to 
her,  but  at  the  head  of  the  large  stairway  she 
stopped,  —  there  was  a  light  in  the  small  salon 
where  she  received  her  intimate  friends,  and  she 
entered  the  room. 

A  man  was  waiting  there,  —  M.  de  Marzac. 


136  BUT  YET  A  WOMAN. 


IX. 


"  You  here ! "  she  said. 

There  was  more  of  weariness  than  of  surprise 
in  her  manner.  She  sank  into  a  chair,  as  if  no 
one  was  there  to  see  her,  and,  leaning  her  head 
upon  its  back,  looked  vacantly  before  her.  The 
light  above  fell  on  her  bare  throat,  not  whiter 
than  her  face  which,  though  bearing  traces  of 
fatigue,  possessed  that  beauty  of  pallor  belonging 
to  clearly  defined  features.  It  was  not  a  happy 
face,  with  its  weary,  restless  eyes  ;  but  it  was  not 
ennui  one  saw  there,  —  for  ennui  results  from  lack 
of  resources,  or  their  exhaustion,  —  but  restless 
ness,  that  restlessness  which  belongs  to  desire  with 
out  an  object ;  and  between  these  two  there  is 
the  difference  of  satiety  and  hunger. 

"  Yes,  I  was  expecting  you,"  replied  her  vis 
itor,  rising  and  standing  before  her.  His  hands 
were  crossed  behind  his  back,  but,  if  one  might 
read  his  eyes,  they  were  around  her. 

"Then  you  know,"  she  said,  without  moving 
except  to  turn  her  head  till  her  eyes  fell  upon 
him,  —  "  it  is  all  over." 

"  Yes,  I  have  read  the  count's  letter.  All  the 
journals  have  it." 


BUT  YET  A  WOMAN.  137 

"  I  have  nothing  more  to  tell  yon,  then,"  she 
answered,  turning  her  head  away  again. 

"  I  did  not  come  to  speak  of  this ;  it  is  already 
an  affair  of  the  past."  He  stood  still,  but  his 
voice  seemed  to  reach  out  after  her  as  his  hands 
did. 

"  You  wish  to  speak  of  something  else  ?  It  is 
late,  and  I  am  very  tired." 

M.  de  Marzac  mistook  a  warning  for  an  excuse. 
This  woman  had  puzzled  him  as  she  had  Father 
Le  Blanc,  with  this  difference,  that  she  had  also 
deceived  him.  He  interpreted  the  oracle  before 
it  had  spoken.  With  his  natural  vanity  and  ar 
rogance,  he  read  the  puzzle  in  the  light  of  his  own 
reason,  which  said,  "  This  woman,  beautiful, 
young,  is,  to  begin  with,  a  woman,"  and  this  alpha 
was  also  M.  de  Marzac's  omega,  and  the  conclu 
sion  of  the  whole  matter. 

"  Do  you  wish  me  to  defer  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no.     Since  you  are  here." 

"  Stephanie  ! "  he  said.  At  the  sound  of  her 
name,  a  little  shiver  of  cold  ran  through  her. 
•4  Have  you  forgotten  what  day  this  is?  " 

A  faint  flush  rose  to  her  cheeks,  and  she  went 
to  the  glass  and  began  to  remove  her  hat. 

"  What  day  ?  "  she  replied,  her  back  towards 
him.  Her  manner  annoyed  him,  and  a  gesture 
of  anger  escaped  him  which  she  could  not  see. 
But  he  made  an  effort  to  control  himself  and  to 
speak  calmly. 


138  BUT  YET  A  WOMAN. 

"  No,  you  have  not  forgotten,  Stephanie 
Women  do  not  forget  such  things.  Will  you  not 
look  at  me  and  let  me  speak  to  you?  " 

Still  she  stood  before  the  mirror  ;  was  it  his 
eyes  or  her  own  that  she  wished  to  avoid?  —  for 
hers  were  not  lifted.  Her  bent  head,  her  down 
cast  eyes,  the  trembling  fingers  that  wandered 
over  the  plume  in  her  hat,  did  not  escape  him. 
u  They  are  all  the  same,"  he  thought  to  himself, 
44  in  sorrow  or  danger  they  will  not  falter,  but 
when  they  love  "  — and  he  drew  a  step  nearer. 

At  the  sound  of  his  step  she  suddenly  turned 
full  upon  him,  with  that  in  her  eyes  and  attitude 
that  bade  him  stop. 

"  Stephanie,"  he  began  again,  pleadingly,  "  why 
will  you  torture  me?  Have  I  not  waited  faith 
fully  ?  Why  should  I  be  here  now,  at  this  hour, 
the  first,  after  so  many,  in  which  my  lips  are  un 
sealed,  if —  if  I  did  not" —  But  he  could  not 
finish.  There  was  that  in  her  eyes  which  bade 
him  stop  again. 

"  You  are  tired,"  he  said,  gently.      "  I   am  a 
fool  to  weary  you   to-night.     No,  not  a  fool"  — 
witli  a  passionate  gesture — "  a  madman  !     I  will 
come  to-morrow." 

Still  she  stood  with  one  hand  resting  on  the 
mantel,  facing  him  like  a  statue,  silent  and  im 
movable.  Perhaps  he  had  expected  her  to  say, 
"  Yes,  to-morrow,  my  friend  ;  "  perhaps  he  looked 
to  see  her  lips  tremble,  or  her  eyes  turn  away; 


BUT  YET  A   WOMAN,  139 

perhaps  that  would  have  satisfied  him  to-night. 
But  there  was  no  such  signal.  Her  fixed  gaze 
seemed  to  look  him  through  and  through.  What 
she  might  see  there  was  not  a  pleasant  sight ; 
that  mad  thirst  for  possession  which  he  had  stifled 
and  crushed  down  so  many  times.  M.  de  Marzac 
called  it  love,  but  it  was  a  love  not  to  be  laid 
bare  too  soon,  — 'this  love  of  self  which  to  his  own 
eyes  could  make  crimes  seem  virtues,  and  has  made 
demons  appear  martyrs.  Whatever  he  wished  to 
say,  prudence  would  at  least  have  bidden  him 
wait,  and  prudence  was  M.  de  Marzac's  guiding 
star.  It  was  even  on  the  point  of  triumphing  at 
this  moment,  when  she  spoke. 

"  Well,  M.  de  Marzac,  is  this  all  you  have  to 
say  to  me  ? '' 

There  was  a  faint  smile  hovering  about  her 
month  that  at  once  annoyed  and  allured  him.  It 
is  at  times  a  disadvantage  to  be  a  man  of  the 
world,  for  the  experience  of  such  is  often  at  fault, 
even  to  the  extent  of  misleading  innate  judgments. 
In  secret,  M.  de  Marzac  always  had  felt  this 
woman  to  be  mistress  of  herself  and  beyond  his 
touch,  but  there  were  always  at  hand  those  for- 
muke  of  his  creed  which  weighed  and  ganged 
everything,  leaving  no  unknown  quantities,  —  her 
with  the  rest.  And,  in  the  light  of  this  creed, 
that  faint  smile  said  to  him,  "  Patience,  and  per 
severance  !  "  and  silenced  his  misgivings*  How 
strong  it  was,  this  creed !  it  had  become  a  second 


140  BUT  YET  A  WOMAN. 

nature.  Aye,  and  strange,  too,  for  while  it  led  M. 
de  Marzac  to  sneer  at  woman,  it  would  have  led 
him  also,  and  for  no  other  reason,  to  sneer  at  one 
who  did  not  bear  it  witness. 

u  A  year  ago  I  told  you  that  I  loved  you,  Ste 
phanie.  You  would  not  listen  ;  you  imposed  si 
lence  upon  me  ;  you  asked  the  greatest  tiling  a 
woman  asks  of  a  man,  —  how  great,  you  did  not 
know,  —  and  I  consented.  The  rOle  was  not  new 
to  me.  The  Count  Milevski  was  my  friend,  and 
I  his9" —  he  said  this  proudly,  —  "ask  yourself,  is 
it  not  so?  Do  you  wish  to  force  me  to  parade 
that  friendship  pitiably  before  your  eyes  ?  No  ! 
it  would  then  cease  to  be  sacred.  You  would  even 
revolt  against  the  confession  that  since  I  first  saw 
you  —  But  why  ?  Do  we  command  our  hearts  ? 
No,  we  can  only  wall  up  their  cry  lest  it  be  heard, 
or  break  them.  When  I  brought  you  back  that 
miniature  of  yourself  which  I  took  from  his  heart 
on  the  way  to  Siberia,  where  I  accompanied  him 
—  oh  !  then  it  would  have  been  an  outrage  !  But 
I  felt  it  next  my  own,  and  when  I  gave  it  into 
your  hands  it  seemed  as  if  in  that  long  journey 
it  had  become  rooted  there,  and  that  in  giving  it 
to  you  I  gave  you  my  life.  I  listened  to  your 
inquiries,  I  saw  your  tears  that  did  not  fall,  and 
you  did  not  know  that  they  lay  in  my  heart  like 
drops  of  burning  lead,  and  that  at  every  sob  you 
repressed  I  myself  shuddered.  What  miserable 
friendship  ?  Well,  I  admit  it.  One  does  not  dis- 


BUT  YET  A    WOMAN.  141 

pute  with  love  —  one  crushes  it.  And  I  crushed 
\t.  But  tell  rne,  honestly,  will  you  say  that  of 
ill  those  who  paid  you  the  cold  courtesy  of  the 
world ;  who  left  their  cards  of  sympathy  at  your 
door  and  went  to  their  baccarat  without  thinking 
twice  of  you,  I  alone  was  unworthy  because,  hav 
ing  the  misfortune  to  love  you,  I  could  leave  Kief 
with  my  hand  at  the  throat  of  this  love,  bidding 
it  be  silent  forever?  But  that  is  the  code  of  the 
world,"  he  said,  bitterly  ;  "  the  man  who  does  not 
tremble  is  brave,  while  he  who  trembles  and  con 
quers  is  a  coward." 

He  turned  to  the  window  to  hide  his  emotion. 
The  smile  on  Stephanie's  mouth  deepened,  only, 
had  M.  de  Marzac  seen  it  now,  he  would  no  longer 
have  been  at  a  loss  as  to  its  meanin^. 

o 

"Long  after,"  he  continued, ''chance  threw  us 
together.  Confess  that  I  did  not  seek  it  —  that 
I  even  avoided  it.  I  saw  you  again  —  young, 
beautiful,  unhappy.  What  reason  then  prevented 
me?  The  debt  to  propriety  was  paid,  and  I 
spoke  to  you.  Why  did  you  exact  from  me  that 
promise,  that  for  a  year  I  should  not  speak  to 
you  again  of  this  ?  Did  you,  perchance,  imagine 
that  I  was  a  boy  to  whom  a  year  sufficed  for  for- 
get  fulness  ?  Certainly,  in  fixing  that  time,  you 
jad  some  reason;  but  I  did  not  demand  it.  I 
asked  no  question.  I  went  back  simply  as  a  pris 
oner  returns  to  the  solitude  from  which  for  a  mo 
ment  he  dared  hope  to  escape,  —  because  you 


142  BUT   YET  A  WOMAN. 

asked  me.  I  promised,  and  that  promise  has  been 
kept.  Day  after  day  I  have  seen  you  ;  day  after 
day  you  whom  I  loved  tempted  me  by  your  very 
confidence.  Ah,  Stephanie,  do  not  believe  that  a 
promise  is  easy,  simply  because  it  is  kept." 

All  the  while  that  smile,  half  curious,  half  scorn 
ful,  was  on  her  face  ;  his  words  struggled  with  it 
as  the  oar  struggles  with  the  current. 

"  How  do  you  expect  one  to  love  you,  M.  de 
Marzac,  when  one  knows  you  ?  " 

It  was  now  too  late  for  prudence.  Those  words 
were  a  challenge.  Hate  must,  indeed,  be  very 
close  to  love;  if  M.  de  Marzac's  face  at  that  mo 
ment  meant  anything  he  was  very  near  wishing 
to  crush  out  forever  that  smile  on  the  lips  which 
goaded  him. 

"  Insults  are  not  worthy  a  woman,"  he  said, 
hoarsely. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  impatiently. 

"  M.  de  Marzac,  I  would  tell  you  frankly  that 
I  do  not  love  you,"  —  she  said  it  with  a  nervous 
spasm,  as  when  one  swallows  an  unpleasant 
draught,  — "  if  you  did  not  know  it  already.  Your 
language  bears  witness  to  it.  But  .that  does  not 
appear  to  satisfy  you.  You  have  the  weakness  to 
protest,  to  demand  an  explanation.  Have  you  the 
courage  to  wish  me  good-night  ?  For,  if  not,  I 
shall  answer  the  reproaches  you  have  addressed 
to  me." 

"  Let  us  finish  with  it,  madame,"  he  said,  be 
tween  his  teeth,  losing  sight  of  his  object. 


BUT  YET  A  WOMAN.  143 

She  laughed. 

"  It  is  such  men  as  you  who  give  rise  to  the 
proverb  that  the  sublime  touches  the  ridiculous. 
You  can  stand  here  before  me  trembling  with  in 
dignation,  appealing  to  every  noble  sentiment, — 
oh,  I  give  you  credit  for  them  !  Noble  sentiments, 
M.  de  Marzac,  are  so  real,  they  exist  so  truly,  that 
even  you,  when  you  invoke  them,  acknowledge 
their  power.  You  have  told  your  story  with  such 
vividness  that  it  appals  you  :  for  the  time  you  be 
lieve  it  true.  You  admire  and  pity  yourself  even 
more  than  you  love  me.  But  the  clubs  are  still 
open.  You  will  yet  have  your  baccarat  also  to 
night.  I  will  even  allow  that  you  play  to  distract 
yourself,  and  will  give  you  till  to-morrow  to  lay 
these  ghosts  of  momentary  feeling  that  have  dis 
turbed  you." 

"  If  you  were  a  man  I  should  know  how  to  an 
swer  you." 

"  And  yet  you  love  me !  Doubtless  you  would 
tell  me  that  only  those  whom  we  love  best  have 
the  power  to  render  us  completely  mad.  And  you 
are  right,  M.  de  Marzac  ;  it  is  yourself  with  whom 
you  are  most  incensed,  because  it  is  you  who  have 
obliged  me  to  unveil  that  self  which  you  worship, 
and  to  expose  its  character,  which  your  vanity  does 
not  always  permit  you  to  recognize.  I  am  not 
the  object  of  your  anger  except  as  I  am  the  spec 
tator  of  your  ignominy.  Yes,  M.  de  Marzac,  I 
repeat  it,"  she  said,  passionately,  "  your  ignominy  I 


144  BUT  YET  A   WOMAN, 

Do  you  wish  me  in  addition  to  telling  you  that  1 
do  not  love  yon,  to  tell  you  why  ?  That  is  a  ques 
tion  of  which  lovers  like  yourself  should  beware. 
Well,  no,  I  will  not  thus  degrade  myself.  Oh, 
the  insolence  of  some  men  !  whose  honor  is  a  little 
circle  of  ground  traced  with  the  point  of  a  sword, 
and  whose  love  is  that  miserable  counterfeit  which 
they  scatter  so  freely.  Do  you  wish  me  to  tell 
you  what  it  is  that  makes  your  heart  quicken  its 
beat  and  your  brain  reel,  and  which  you  call  love  ? 
It  is  not  1,  M.  de  Marzac,  but  this  perfume  which 
lingers  in  my  glove,  and  which  lasts  longer  than 
the  passion  which  it  inspires." 

"  For  a  woman  who  has  discovered  the  value 
of  perfumes,  you  set  your  standards  high,  ma- 
dame." 

"  Yes,  M.  de  Marzac,"  she  replied,  calmly,  "  they 
are  high,  —  higher  than  you  understand  ;  and  when 
you  have  learned  to  respect  the  shrine  without 
desiring  to  violate  it,  you  will  know  how  high  and 
—  how  different.  Love  does  not  ask  for  perfec 
tions,"  she  said,  turning  away  from  him  and  ad 
dressing  herself  rather,  in  a  tone  from  which  all 
anger  had  vanished,  "it  asks  only  for  its  own. 
You  cannot  propitiate  it  with  gifts,  nor  satisfy  it 
with  all  the  virtues,  if  you  cannot  pay  it  back 
value  for  value  in  its  own  coin ;  and  if  this  tribute 
be  paid,"  and  an  expression  of  exaltation  irradiated 
her  face,  "  it  will  forgive  every  weakness.  You 
shrug  your  shoulders,  you  no  longer  understand 


BUT  YET  A   WOMAN.  145 

me.  Why  should  you  ! "  she  said,  striking  the 
bell  on  the  table,  "  every  man  measures  the  world 
with  his  own  measure." 

"  You  speak  with  the  conviction  of  experience," 
he  said,  with  a  sneer.  "  Permit  me  to  congratu 
late  you." 

"  What  we  seek  we  shall  find,  M.  de  Marzac, 
and  when  we  come  to  our  own  we  shall  know 
each  other." 

As  she  spoke,  the  servant,  answering  the  bell, 
appeared  at  the  door. 

"  M.  de  Marzac's  carriage,  Jacques,"  she  said, 
in  her  usual  tone. 

"  It  is  ready,  monsieur." 

At  the  door  M.  de  Marzac  paused,  as  if  about 
to  say  something,  then  left  the  room  abruptly. 
44  Monsieur  has  forgotten  his  gloves,"  said  Jacques, 
following  him  down  the  stairs. 

"  Keep  out  from  under  my  heels ! "  was  the 
reply. 

"  Thanks,  monsieur,"  said  Jacques,  as  he  closed 
the  heavy  door.  "  They  are  perfectly  &ew,  and  " 
—  drawing  them  on  — "they  fit  me  irarvelously 

well." 

10 


146  BUT  YET  A  WOMAN. 


M.  DE  MARZAC  drove  through  life  in  his  car- 
riage.  He  had  in  his  stables  all  the  virtues, 
blooded  animals  of  the  purest  race,  and  on  the 
driver's  seat  a  whip  who  knew  how  to  control 
them,  called  Selfishness. 

With  this  turnout  he  gained  admission  to  places 
from  which  good  honest  vices  were  excluded. 

The  idea  was  not  altogether  original  with  M. 
de  Marzac,  but  he  had  perfected  it  to  a  marvel 
ous  degree.  His  appointments  were  faultless, 
and  his  driver  understood  his  business ;  and  no 
one  ever  dreamed  that  it  was  M.  de  Marzac  him 
self  who  sat  upon  the  box,  or  suspected  that  the 
real  occupant  of  the  carriage  was  a  lay  figure. 
Nor  was  M.  de  Marzac  to  be  blamed  for  this  de 
ception.  Nature  had  endowed  him  with  a  strong 
imagination,  and,  as  is  well  known,  this  faculty 
creates  what  it  imagines. 

This  method  of  making  the  journey  of  life  has 
so  many  advantages  that  it  is  difficult  to  enumer 
ate  them.  Some  of  his  friends,  for  example,  who 
had  boldly  harnessed  the  vices  into  their  equipages, 
found  it  difficult  at  times  to  prevent  them  from 
kicking  over  the  traces.  Well-trained  and  care- 


BUT   YET  A   WOMAN.  147 

fully  domesticated  as  were  these  wild  animals, 
harnessed  with  the  glittering  restraints  of  society, 
bred  for  this  most  civilized  Parisian  market, 
groomed  till  their  coats  shone  soft  and  glossy  as> 
the  polish  of  the  society  which  they  drew,  their 
wild  instincts  often  proved  ungovernable,  and  led 
to  a  catastrophe  on  the  very  highway  of  social 
display.  How  much  better  these  quiet  and  less 
fiery  virtues,  a  little  slow  at  times,  but  which,  on 
the  other  hand,  never  committed  the  impropriety 
of  running  away  with  their  owner.  Their  value 
to  M.  de  Marzac  was,  of  course,  wholly  due  to  the 
peculiar  genius  of  their  driver,  who  had  these  doc 
ile  animals  completely  under  his  control.  There 
was  no  by-way  or  cul-de-sac  into  which  he  would 
not  venture,  and  where  he  could  not  gracefully 
turn  :  and  between  the  hypothetical  M.  de  Mar* 
zac  and  the  real  one,  —  for  he,  like  every  man, 
was  an  hypothesis  which  his  neighbor  never  com 
pletely  verified,  —  there  was  the  most  perfect  un 
derstanding.  Yet  this  intimacy  was  not  one  of 
which  he  even  admitted  the  existence.  Perhaps, 
in  the  earlier  stages  of  his  career,  he  had  been 
more  or  less  aware  of  the  double  role  he  was 
playing  ;  but,  like  all  true  actors,  he  had  lost  him 
self  in  his  part,  till  in  his  eyes,  as  in  those  of  the 
spectators,  there  was  no  other  M.  de  Marzac  than 
that  correct  and  respectable  cue  constantly  before 
the  footlights. 

He  was  thus  more  than  the  mere  juggler  who 


148  BUT  YET  A    WOMAN. 

deceives  the  audience,  for  he  deceived  also  him 
self.  Selfishness,  like  a  robber  crab,  had  taken 
complete  possession  of  this  shell  of  propriety  in 
which,  as  in  a  state  carriage,  he  made  the  journey 
of  life  ;  and,  at  last,  he  had  lost  track  of  his  own 
identity.  He?  He  was  himself  this  varnished, 
satin-lined  vehicle  of  propriety,  which  had  grown 
to  him  like  a  skin,  and  the  virtues  which  drew  it 
coursed  with  his  own  blood  in  his  veins ! 

He  had  acquired  the  habit  of  doing  what  was 
proper,  and  finally  what  was  right,  from  mixed 
motives.  Tolerating  at  first  the  mixture,  he  grad 
ually  ignored  its  unworthy  elements,  to  deny  them 
at  last  altogether.  The  propriety  of  his  acts  slowly 
overspread  the  motives  also,  and  a  kind  of  auto 
matic  process  resulted.  It  was  a  mill  to  which 
any  grist  might  be  carried;  so  that  when  M.  de 
Marzac,  like  other  honest  people,  secretly  confessed 
himself  not  so  good  as  he  ought  to  be,  he  was  des 
perately  worse  than  he  thought  lie  was.  He  car 
ried  with  him  a  reversible  glass;  in  observing 
others  he  used  the  large  end  at  the  eye ;  where 
self  was  concerned,  the  small  one.  Thus  it  was 
that  the  whole  question  of  right  had  resolved  it 
self  into  one  of  rights, — that  is,  the  rights  of  M. 
de  Marzac. 

He  was  the  last  of  a  good  family,  and,  if  one 
does  not  mind  it  one's  self,  this  is  rather  desirable 
than  otherwise  ;  if  only  for  the  reason  that  it  is  not 
generally  so  regarded,  and  thus  furnishes  an  oo- 


BUT  YET  A   WOMAN.  149 

casional  opportunity  for  a  feeling  allusion.  If 
only  M.  de  Marzac  could  have  displayed  for  the 
living  the  affection  which  he  felt  for  the  dead ! 
But  this  was  impossible.  All  the  force  of  his  af 
fection  was  retroactive.  With  him  it  seemed  nec 
essary  to  have  lost,  to  love  at  all.  He  had  the 
air  of  a  man  solitary  and  alone  ;  far  too  sensible 
to  seek  an  open  sympathy,  or  even  to  pretend  a 
desire  for  it,  still  obtaining  it  and  producing  a 
good  effect.  For  this  solitude  he  consoled  himself 
in  various  ways.  Fortunately  for  his  tranquillity 
these  consolations  were  more  agreeable  than  that 
for  which  they  consoled  him ;  but  this  fact  he  had 
forgotten.  In  his  own  eyes  he  was  what  he  ought 
to  have  been  under  the  circumstances,  and  having 
established  this  fact  he  could  condone  certain 
efforts  to  forget  this  imaginary  and  unhappy  self 
of  his  own  creation.  The  transition  from  indul 
gence,  through  compensation,  to  right,  was  thus 
made  easy. 

It  would  be  no  easy  matter  to  explain  the  inti 
macy  between  M.  de  Marzac  and  the  young  Count 
Milevski.  It  was  one  of  those  things  for  which, 
there  is  no  raison  d'etre,  yet  whose  existence  is 
beyond  question.  The  theory  of  the  attraction  of 
opposites  would  not  explain  it,  nor  would  that  of 
the  affinity  between  similars.  It  is  moro  conven 
ient  to  fall  back  upon  some  unknown  principle, 
as  was  the  custom  of  the  early  physicists,  and  in 
voke  a  sentimental  caloric.  Otherwise  one  would 


160  BUT  YET  A    WOMAN. 

never  understand  how  the  Count  Milevski,  young^ 
generous,  and  enthusiastic,  should  have  threaded 
his  way  through  all  the  currents  of  personal  mag 
netism  and  attached  himself  to  M.  de  Marzac. 

This  attachment  began  on  the  occasion  of  a 
visit  of  the  count  to  Paris,  during  the  latter  days 
of  the  empire.  M.  de  Marzac  was  then  well 
known  through  the  columns  of  "  L/Univers  "  as  an 
ardent  defender  of  the  monarchy.  The  articles 
which  appeared  over  his  signature  were  bold, 
haughty,  and  uncompromising;  but  dignified,  fer 
vent,  and  forceful.  He  put  a  certain  honest 
effort  into  all  he  wrote,  which  won  respect  even 
where  it  did  not  carry  conviction,  and  which  was 
frequently  a  source  of  astonishment  to  himself. 
lie  was  often  surprised  at  the  strength  of  his  own 
arguments.  Behind  M.  de  Marzac's  mixed  mo 
tives  was,  of  course,  a  mixed  character.  Did  any 
one  ask  why  he  was  a  royalist,  there  was,  first,  the 
answer  that,  as  a  gentleman  of  fortune  and  leisure, 
with  great  energies  and  high  principles,  he  must 
be  something  ;  that,  as  a  man  of  prudence  and 
foresight,  he  was  far  too  sagacious  to  take  passage 
in  the  imperial  ship  of  state,  already  among  the 
breakers  ;  radical  republicanism  was  a  crime,  the 
Left  Centre  was  too  prosaic.  For  M.  de  Marzac 
had  a  vein  of  romance  in  his  composition  ;  a  true 
Gallic  love  for  glory,  external  effect,  and  decora 
tive  detail.  This  element  of  his  character  passed 
for  chivalry  and  fearlessness,  whereas  it  was  in 


BUT  YET  A    WOMAN.  151 

reality  pure  vanity.  He  had  the  courage  of  his 
convictions,  in  so  far  as  he  was  convinced  they 
deified  him.  Before  the  altars  of  great  principles 
he  did  not  bow,  — he  stood  upon  them  ;  they 
were  the  pedestals  of  a  statue.  He  could  contem 
plate  heroic  deeds;  his  dreams — for  M.  de  Mar* 
zac  dreamed  —  were  woven  of  imaginary  exploits 
which  he  was  ready  to  execute  at  the  risk  of  his 
life,  provided  that  death  rendered  him  immortal. 
Let  us  do  him  justice ;  he  would  have  led  a  for 
lorn  hope,  only  it  mattered  little  on  which  side, 
provided  he  led  it,  and  men  marveled.  There 
was  thus  a  real  foundation  for  the  admiration 
he  inspired,  although  the  warp  of  good  and  the 
woof  of  evil  would  have  taxed  Minos  to  unravel. 
Habit  had  fused  them  into  one  solid  texture,  to 
analyze  and  separate  which  one  would  have  to 
follow  the  method  of  Solomon's  famous  judgment, 
and  cut  the  whole  asunder  with  the  sword,  —  and, 
with  a  like  result,  it  would  have  destroyed  M.  de 
Marzac. 

The  count  had  exacted  from  him  the  promise 
to  return  his  visit  at  Kief,  and,  on  the  eve  of  the 
former's  marriage,  he  was  urgently  reminded  of 
it ;  so  that  when  M.  de  Marzac  first  saw  Stephanie 
Michel,  it  was  just  as  she  was  about  to  wear  the 
orange  blossoms. 

He  did  not  escape  the  fever  of  admiration  for 
the  young  bride  which  swept  over  the  circle  of  the 
count's  friends.  She  bewildered  them  all.  Some 


152  BUT  YET  A    WOMAN. 

glances,  and  some  words  even,  were  dropped  at 
her  feet  which  a  coquette  might  have  dallied 
with;  but  all  this  admiration  was  to  Stdphanie  a 
part  of  the  pageant.  She  was  bewildered  her 
self. 

The  ceremonies  terminated  with  a  ball,  at 
which  M.  de  Marzac  was,  of  course,  present.  As 
he  drives  away  from  the  fete  in  his  carriage,  a 
conscience  long  since  subdued,  the  very  clank  of 
whose  fetters  has  become  applause,  sets  his  mind 
at  peace  with  all  the  world.  Once  thoroughly 
mastered,  there  is  no  better  slave;  for  none  knows 
better  the  rough  places  that  need  smoothing  and 
the  sore  spots  that  need  balm.  It  was  a  pleasure 
in  which  he  often  indulged,  to  go  on  the  witness- 
stand  before  this  conscience,  to  play  the  criminal 
in  order  to  be  acquitted  ;  and,  on  his  way  home, 
he  amused  himself  with  this  game  of  solitaire. 

"  Well,"  he  thought,  "  Mademoiselle  Michel  is 
now  the  Countess  Milevski."  She  had  made  a 
wonderful  bride  ;  not  the  least  overdressed,  —  for 
M.  de  Marzac  was  a  man  of  faultless  taste,  —  and 
her  lithe  figure  reappeared  before  him  in  the  dark 
ness  of  his  carriage  as  he  had  seen  it  under  the 
lights  of  the  ball-room.  Oh,  yes !  he  admired 
her,  as  must  all  men  who  saw  her.  A  few  glasses 
of  champagne,  the  glitter  and  perfume  of  the  ball, 
a  clinging  fold  of  lace  or  the  contours  of  a  piece 
of  satin,  lustrous  and  soft  as  what  it  covers,  — • 
what  an  empire  they  have  I  and  M.  de  Marzac 


BUT   YET  A    WOMAN.  153 

smiled.  The  count,  his  friend,  was  a  happy  man, 
and  deserved  to  be  ;  a  man  of  promise,  —  perhaps  a 
little  enthusiastic,  a  little  extreme  in  his  views,  as 
the  young  are  apt  to  be.  This  "  Young  Russia  " 
had  a  great  work  and  a  great  future  before  it,  — 
if  it  did  not  go  too  far.  Parties  acquire  so  terri 
ble  a  momentum  !  and,  if  anything,  the  count  was 
certainly  a  little  too  radical,  a  little  over  zealous. 
Patience  is  a  very  difficult  virtue.  It  was  a  pity 
that  he  should  be  so  rash  in  his  utterances ;  for 
words  and  actions,  when  unripe,  destroy  one's  le 
gitimate  influence.  But  then,  conservatism  comes 
with  age.  Did  she  love  him  ?  Why  not !  All 
these  accessories  of  wealth  and  position,  his  youth 
and  devoted  ness,  might  well  turn  the  head  of  one 
just  out  from  the  walls  of  the  convent  school  of 
Notre  Dame.  It  was  so  easy  for  M.  de  Marzac 
himself  to  fall  in  love,  that  he  might  have  been 
pardoned  for  drawing  a  hasty  inference.  But  he 
was  a  shrewd  observer,  and  had  discovered  that  a 
woman's  first  love  does  not  require  such  bait,  and 
is  an  altogether  irrational  and  capricious  passion, 
which  sometimes  tears  usages  and  conventional 
proprieties  into  tatters  !  How  beautiful  she  was  ! 
What  depths  there  were  in  her  eyes,  —  how  placid 
and  serious  they  were  !  The  fire  was  there,  but  it 
had  not  been  lighted ;  he  had  not  seen  a  single  one 
of  those  glances  which  betray  love.  —  and,  in  the 
corner  of  his  carriage,  M.  de  Marzac  indulged  in  a 
long  reverie.  What  wild,  improbable  thoughts,  or 


154  BUT   YET  A    WOMAN. 

hopes,  flitted  through  his  mind  !  Whatever  they 
were,  let  us  not  laugh  at  them,  for  are  not  bold 
thoughts  and  hopes,  oftener  than  is  supposed,  the 
only  parents  of  great  successes  ? 
«•  Envy  ?  Jealousy  ?  M.  de  Marzac  never  de 
scended  so  low.  His  passions  were  too  shallow. 
If  fate  had  not  predestined  the  Count  Milevski  to 
wake  this  slumbering  princess,  why  should  any 
one  wonder  ?  The  law  of  chances  was  against  it. 

O 

Still,  she  was  his  ;  this,  at  least,  was  a  fact.  What 
an  absurd  machinery  society  had  invented  for 
pairing  the  race  I  It  was  a  matter  of  pure  luck 
whether  or  no  the  parts  fitted.  Inclinations  — 
important  elements  —  were  like  friction,  lost  sight 
of  till  it  began  its  work  of  bringing  the  machine 
to  rest.  Envy?  Nonsense!  To  think  of  the 
good  fortune  of  one's  friend  is  not  a  crime !  And 

as  for  what  he  said   to   M.  Z ,  whom  he  had 

known  at  Paris,  where  the  latter  had  been  in 
trusted  with  certain  delicate  matters  of  the  secret 
political  service  of  the  Russian  Empire,  and  with 
whom  he  chatted  for  a  moment  before  leaving  the 
ball-room,  what  folly !  He  had  said  nothing 
which  compromised  the  count.  Did  not  Milevski 
talk  freely  with  every  one  ?  a  little  too  freely, 
possibly  :  but  never  in  confidence.  He  could  not 
flatter  himself  that  he  had  been  to  any  degree  his 
confidant;  on  the  contrary,  the  hint  he  had  dropped 

in   the  ear  of  M.  Z might  reach  the  count, 

and  prove  a  useful  check ;  he  had  himself  warned 
him  to  be  more  prudent. 


BUT  YET  A    WOMAN.  155 

Do  not  imagine  that  M.  de  Marzac  would  have 
permitted  another  to  ask  these  self-imposed  ques 
tions.  So  imprudent  an  intruder  upon  the  domain 
of  private  rights  would  have  received  a  peremp 
tory  challenge,  and,  on  the  way  to  the  ground,  M. 
de  Marzac  would  have  said  to  his  second,  "  Bah  ! 
what  object  could  I  have  ?  It  is  folly  to  imagine 
it !  A  mere  pretext  for  a  quarrel." 

From  Kief  he  went  to  St.  Petersburg,  where  he 
soon  heard  with  astonishment  of  the  count's  arrest 
and  exile.  Ah !  well,  then,  he  was  right  ;  his 
friend  had  gone  too  far,  and  the  police  must  have 
had  this  matter  in  hand  for  a  long  time.  He 

would  appeal  to  M.  Z ,  who,  of  course,  knew 

nothing  and  could  do  nothing,  as  he,  in  fact,  told 
him  over  coffee  and  cognac.  Could  he  not  obtain 
a  pass  for  him  to  accompany  the  count  over  the 
Ural  Mountains  to  Tobolsk,  or  at  least  to  Perm  ? 
He  desired  to  travel  in  Russia,  and  might  thus 
also  console  a  friend. 

In  the  subjugation  of  conscience,  M.  de  Marzac 
wore  gloves  and  avoided  brutality.  His  was  the 
instinct  of  perversion,  not  of  murder.  Instead  of 
slaying  that  inward  monitor  outright,  he  con 
fronted  it  with  expediency,  and  taught  it  to  doubt 
its  own  dictates.  He  thus  managed  to  preserve 
the  fountain  of  fine  emotions  and  noble  senti 
ments,  although  the  waters  were  soon  contami 
nated  and  polluted.  He  was  ever  looking  abroad, 
and  ran  the  impulses  of  his  better  nature  into  the 


156  BUT  YET  A    WOMAN. 

mould  of  expediency.  He  walked  on  the  sands, 
where  footprints  never  linger  long,  so  that  when 
any  one  said  to  him,  "  See !  this  is  the  way  you 
must  have  passed,"  he  could  answer  simply, 
"  Show  me  the  proofs  ;  there  are  none,  and  you 
are  mistaken." 

When,  with  his  passport  duly  signed,  he  joined 
the  escort  of  the  count,  there  was  in  his  heart  a 
spark  of  real  pity  and  sympathy,  and  the  capacity, 
—  oh,  only  the  capacity !  —  for  an  equally  real 
treachery. 

He  had  no  plan  ;  M.  de  Marzac  never  had  any ; 
his  theory  of  life  did  not  include  the  creation  of 
opportunities.  Events,  like  torrents,  rushed  down 
the  slope  of  time  under  laws  beyond  his  control ; 
man  -was  the  leaf  in  the  stream,  fortunate  indeed 
if  he  desired  to  go  whither  he  was  perforce  obliged 
to.  This  did  not  prevent  him  from  acting  at  times 
m  his  own  behalf,  prudently  and  deliberately,  as 
every  struggling  swimmer  would,  who  was  bound 
to  make  the  best  of  his  situation.  But,  weighed 
in  the  force  of  the  torrent,  what  mattered  in  the 
long  run  such  insignificant  efforts?  Life  was  a 
vast  machine,  intricate,  delicate  in  its  infinite  de 
tails,  but  ponderous  and  remorseless;  a  machine 
altogether  out  of  joint,  for  which  he  was  not  ac 
countable;  with  which  a  thousand  busybodies 
were  forever  interfering,  and  of  which  he  was  an 
irresponsible  part ;  irresponsible,  not  because  he 
could  not  do  his  part  well,  but  because  the  whole 


BUT   YET  A    WOMAN.  157 

affair  was  in  such  a  chaotic  jungle  of  cross  pur 
poses  that  it  made  no  difference. 

The  count  would  have  gone  to  destruction  en- 
tirelv  independent  of  M.  de  Marzac  ;  and  if,  in 
the  loneliness  and  privations  of  Siberia,  a  wife 
was  made  a  widow  —  it  was  not  an  unreasonable 
supposition.  God  forbid  it  should  come  to  pass ! 
Madame  could  not  have  learned  to  love  her  hus 
band  very  deeply,  —  a  mere  child  out  of  a  con 
vent,  —  and,  moreover,  not  a  woman  who  was 
owned  simply  because  she  had  been  bought. 
What  compensations  life  brought  I  And  M.  de 
Marzac  fell  asleep  in  the  wagon  beside  his  friend, 
whose  buoyant  nature  had  been  crushed  at  the 
first  blow,  and  who  made  the  entire  journey  in  a 
stupor. 

All  that  is  known  of  that  journey  is  what  M. 
de  Marzac  told  on  his  return  ;  and  while  he  came 
back  with  the  prestige  of  faithfulness  to  a  friend 
in  disgrace,  and  devotion  at  the  couch  of  a  malig 
nant  fever,  he  was  —  to  his  annoyance,  strangely 
enough  —  taken  at  his  own  price,  granted  a  pain 
ful  half-hour  with  the  countess  and  her  mother, 
and  dismissed  with  the  latter 's  blessing. 

He  returned  to  Paris  to  reswne  control  of  L'Uni- 
vers  ;  "  to  fill  its  feuilleton  with  brilliant  sketches 
of  life  in  Russia,  to  wage  a  literary  war  on  the 
empire,  and  to  defend  the  Church  against  the  rad 
icals.  He  illustrated  the  saying,  "  The  nearer  the 
throne,  the  farther  from  royalty  ;  the  nearer  the 
Church,  the  farther  from  God  " 


158  BUT  YET  A   WOMAN. 

When,  later,  his  ability,  prudence,  and  pen  des 
ignated  him  as  one  of  the  u  petite  societe  "  of  the 
h6tel  in  the  Boulevard  St.  Germain,  he  was  aston 
ished  to  find  its  mistress  and  his  coadjutor  none 
other  than  the  woman  whom  he  had  left  at  Kief, 
and  whom  he  had  forgotten  —  as  a  dog  sleeps, 
with  one  eye  open  —  till  it  should  be  worth  while 
to  remember  her. 

Clearly  it  was  Fate  that  had  thrown  this  woman, 
free  and  alone,  in  all  the  splendor  of  matured 
beauty,  across  his  path.  For  the  first  time  he 
now  really  began  to  love  her,  although  he  could 
afterwards  say  to  her  as  he  did,  and  believe  it,  that 
he  had  loved  her  all  the  while.  M.  de  Marzac 
must  have  played  baccarat  well,  if  he  shuffled 
cards  as  he  did  words.  He  had  indeed  desired 
her  from  the  first ;  and  between  now  and  then 
the  difference  in  the  possibilities  of  success  was 
the  only  difference.  In  weighing  these  possibili 
ties,  he  had  this  excuse,  that  with  him  Stephanie 
was  really  provocative.  It  was  not  long  before 
sha  read  both  his  passion  and  his  nature.  Her 
insight  was  keen,  and  this,  with  her  tact,  made 
her  at  times  appear  to  him  reckless,  or  at  least 
daring,  when  in  reality  she  was  so  sure  of  herself 
and  so  indifferent  to  him  that  he  counted  for  noth 
ing.  In  exacting  from  him  the  promise  of  a  year's 
silence,  after  his  offer,  she  gave  some  ground  for 
the  reproaches  he  made  her  the  night  of  her  return 
from  Frohsdorf.  Waiting  always  taxes  patience, 


BUT  YET  A   WOMAN.  159 

and  he  had  been  waiting  to  no  purpose.  Had  he 
not  composed  himself,  like  a  fox  in  the  sun,  under 
the  fruit  that  is  destined  to  fall  in  due  season  ? 
But  Stephanie  felt  an  instinctive  aversion  to  him. 
If  there  was  any  bitterness  in  her  nature,  he  ex 
cited  it.  The  honey  of  his  words  and  the  gilt  of 
his  exterior  was  a  perpetual  reminder  of  what  she 
was  endeavoring  to  forget',  he  stood  for  her  as 
the  symbol  of  what  she  despised,  and  she  could 
not  forbear  to  play  with  him.  To  this  little  com 
edy  she  consented  as  the  lioness,  sleeping  disdain 
fully  with  half-closed  eyes,  consents  to  the  gam 
bols  of  a  mouse  in  her  cage. 

M.  de  Marzac  had  not  thus  lived  in  vain,— . 
since  he  extracted  and  conveyed  away  the  gall  and 
bitterness  of  a  great  nature. 


160  BUT  YET  A  WOMAN. 


XI. 

MADAME   VALFOKT  had   resigned   her  claims 
over  Rdne'e,  as  Stephanie  had  prophesied. 

" 1  am  very  glad  that  you  are  to  remain  near 
her,"  she  had  said  to  Stephanie,  "  and  that  she  will 
have  your  experience  to  direct  her.  You  can  over 
see  and  counsel  her  so  much  better  than  I,  and 
with  so  much  more  propriety.  I  really  owe  you 
an  apology  for  venturing  to  intrude  at  all ;  but  M. 
Michel  did  not  seem  to  realize  that  she  might  be 
making  a  great  mistake,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that 
before  so  young  a  girl  takes  a  step  as  decisive  as 
that  she  had  in  mind,  her  knowledge  and  her  vision 
of  life  ought  to  be  enlarged  and  widened.  This 
journey  with  you  will  be  admirable  for  her  in 
every  way,  and  I  congratulate  you  on  the  thought 
of  it,  as  I  shall  do  her  on  the  delightful  prospect 
before  her." 

"  You  must  not  congratulate  her  too  warmly," 
Stephanie  said,  quietly. 

"  Oh,  I  fancy  she  has  read  me  already.  She 
is  very  quick  and  clear-sighted,  —  that  is,  as  far 
as  she  sees,' — and  I  had  no  idea  of  deceiving  her. 
Indeed,  I  did  not  rely  upon  myself  at  all.  I  sim 
ply  wanted  her  to  meet  people,  —  in  short,  to  coino 


BUT  YET  A  WOMAN.  161 

out  of  herself,  —  and,  if  these  influences  had  failed 
to  divert  her,  I  could  have  used  no  others." 

Renee  had  followed  Stephanie's  suggestion,  and, 
>esicle  the  party  which  was  at  Beauvais,  only  the 
Baron  Scherer  and  Madame  Valfort  had  been  in 
vited  to  the  Rue  du  Bac.  But  for  an  unexpected 
incident,  this  last  gathering  before  her  departure 
would  have  been  a  reunion  en  famille.  But  M. 
Lande  had  met  M.  de  Marzac  the-  night  before, 
and,  in  the  innocence  of  his  heart,  had  imparted 
to  him  the  information  that  M.  Michel  had  re 
turned,  and  would  receive  the  next  evening  as 
usual. 

It  might  be  supposed  that  M.  de  Marzac  would 
not  care  to  go  where  he  was  quite  sure  to  meet 
the  woman  who  had  so  cruelly  repulsed  him.  The 
rebuff  had  been  so  unexpected,  so  full  of  scorn, 
that  many  a  man  in  his  place  would  have  avoided 
the  encounter.  But  in  defeat  pride  is  the  back 
bone  of  courage.  The  salon  of  M.  Michel  was 
not  one  of  those  crowded  ones,  in  the  perpetual 
coming  and  going  of  whose  guests  his  absence 
would  have  been  unnoticed.  Its  habitues  were 
few  and  constant,  and  in  the  eyes  of  one  woman 
at  least  his  absence  might  be  construed  in  a  man 
ner  mortifying  to  his  vanity. 

And  then  M.  de  Marzac's  emotional  nature  re- 
3tnbled  somewhat   India-rubber,  which,  after  re 
ceiving  a  deep  impression,  regains  its  form  readily. 
When  the  first  smart  of  his  interview  had  passed 


11 


162  BUT  YET  A  WOMAN. 

he  began  to  reproach  himself  angrily  for  his  lack 
of  restraint  and  loss  of  temper.  He  had  thrown 
the  game  away  ;  and  he  felt  now  more  keenly  this 
his  own  folly  than  the  caustic  words  of  Stephanie. 
He  had  chosen  the  very  day  on  which  his  pro 
bation  ended,  partly  because  he  was  impatient, 
but  mainly  because  it  was  a  day  of  defeat  and 
disappointment,  and  he  had  calculated  the  effect 
of  failure  and  despair  upon  this  mind,  so  long  oc 
cupied  with  a  great  ambition.  When  the  storms 
blow  about  the  great  peaks  of  achievement  and 
ambition,  the  heart  seeks  shelter  in  the  green  val 
leys  of  affection  which  lie  at  their  base.  It  were 
a  fit  time,  indeed,  for  the  lover  to  open  his  arms ; 
but  a  lover  who  is  not  loved  is  no  better  than  a 
statue  ;  and  when  he  made  this  discovery,  instead 
of  offering  that  mnte  sympathy  which  inspires  grat 
itude,  that  disinterested  love  which  may  yet  win 
something  by  resigning  everything,  he  had  pressed 
his  own  interests,  and  a  moment  of  impatience 
had  destroyed  the  work  of  a  whole  year.  It  was 
the  mistake  of  a  tyro  to  allow  a  look,  a  word,  to 
overcome  prudence  and  to  convert  him  into  a 
madman  consumed  .by  his  own  passion.  To  a 
sense  of  the  ignominy  of  his  defeat  succeeded  an 
angry  self-exasperation  for  the  folly  which  had 
contributed  to  it,  and  the  desire  to  retrieve  him 
self.  Pride,  more  than  love,  had  been  outraged, 
and  wounded  pride  is  like  a  general  who  sacks  the 
city  he  cannot  keep. 


BUT  YET  A  WOMAN.  163 

But  M.  de  Marzac  had  not  yet  wholly  given 
himself  over  to  thoughts  of  revenge.  He  still 
hoped.  The  picture  of  himself  which  Stephanie 
had  so  mercilessly  unveiled  had  become  indistinct. 
He  thought  less  and  less  of  himself  as  she  painted 
him,  and  more  and  more  of  her.  He  remembered 
that  if  he  had  lost  his  self-control,  she  had  also. 
"  In  anger,  divide  by  two,"  he  thought.  "  Women 
are  so  intense  !  A  little  heat,  and  directly  they 
are  sublimated  !  "  By  dint  of  repeating  this  he 
succeeded  in  dulling  the  sense  of  certain  words  of 
hers  which  he  could  not  altogether  forget.  And 
that  which  made  these  lame  excuses  walk,  and 
gave  body  to  this  thin  argument,  was  the  thought 
of  her,  —  his  love  for  her  he  would  have  said; 
and  it  is  a  word  to  which  he  has  the  right,  as 
have  other  people,  —  the  thought  of  her  as  he  had 
seen  her  so  many  times  in  the  year  just  passed. 
On  the  sensitive  plate  of  his  senses  all  these  images 
were  stamped  indelibly,  and  they  drew  him  back 
to  her,  and  asserted  their  power  over  him,  as  on 
that  evening  when  he  stood  in  her  presence.  That 
very  presence  which  filled  his  eyes  had  been  more 
potent  than  the  words  which  rung  in  his  ears. 

M.  de  Marzac  was  hungry  !  He  had  been  starv 
ing  for  a  whole  year. 

There  were  times,  it  is  true,  when  the  recollec 
tion  of  that  evening  was  so  vivid  that  it  seemed 
he  must  admit  that  his  theory  of  woman,  based 
though  it  was  upon  some  actual  experiences  in 


164  BUT  YET  A    WOMAN. 

which  a  stormy  and   protracted  contest  had   ter- 

ainated  in  capitulation,  had  its  exceptions.     But 

1  M.  de  Marzac's  theory  there  were  no  exceptions, 

_*nd  what  seemed   to  be  such  fortified  the   rule. 

There  was  another  lover ! 

Who  was  he  ?  It  was  not  the  first  time  M.  de 
Marzac  had  thought  of  such  a  contingency  ;  but 
this  thought  now  possessed  a  new  force,  and  on 
his  way  to  M.  Michel's  he  searched  the  list  of  his 
acquaintances,  — but  in  vain.  Madame  Milevski's 
name  was  not  one  of  those  which  circulate  at  the 
club,  between  a  smile  and  an  innuendo,  —  not  the 
less  understood  because  it  lacks  precision.  Still, 
the  lover  must  exist.  The  logic  of  his  theory  was 
irresistible.  If  he  failed,  it  was  because  another 
succeeded.  Well,  then,  perseverance,  or  revenge! 

As  he  entered  the  room,  a  rapid  glance  assured 
him  that  she  had  not  yet  come. 

Rene*e  received  him  with  her  usual  grace  and 
simple-hearted  cordiality.  She  was  not  yet  old 
enough  to  know  the  wolf  from  the  lamb,  except  as 
each  wore  his  own  skin.  She  was  looking  remark 
ably  well  that  evening.  The  prospect  of  so  sud 
den  and  complete  a  change,  as  her  journey  with 
Stephanie  involved,  added  to  her  face  what  it  had 
to  her  thoughts,  anticipation  and  exhilaration. 

"  Mademoiselle  has  been  so  improved  by  her 
immer  at  Beauvais,"  old  M.  Lande  had  said  as 
8  greeted  her  that  evening,  "  I  can  hardly  rec 
ognize  her.  That  is  a  compliment  not  very  well 


BUT  YET  A    WOMAN.  165 

turned,   but    I  was   not  thinking  of  paying   you 
one." 

Re'ne'e  was  none  the  less  pleased  with  it,  how< 
ever.  She  had  not  reached  that  period  which 
comes  to  a  woman,  when  every  line  and  contour 
of  the  face  is  known  by  heart  ;  and,  before  her 
dressing-table  that  evening,  the  tall  candles  had 
shown  her  in  the  glass  a  face  which  was  a  veri 
table  surprise  ;  and  M.  Lande's  expression  of  pleas 
ure  was  no  more  sincere  or  harmless  than  her  own 
had  been,  when,  standing  before  the  long  mirror, 
a  figure  she  had  never  before  seen  stepped  out 
from  its  dark  background,  fastening  about  its  neck 
the  pearls  M.  Michel  had  given  her  that  very  aft 
ernoon.  This  was  a  custom  he  had  observed 
ever  since  •  she  was  a  little  girl,  —  to  bring  her 
Saturday  evening  some  gift, — a  book,  a  box  of 
bonbons,  a  plant  for  her  window,  or  a  flower  only. 
It  was,  perhaps,  his  way  of  making  good  a  con 
scious  deficiency  in  attention  to  his  niece,  or,  per 
haps,  it  was,  constitutionally,  the  only  way  in 
Avhich  he  could  evince  a  secret  tenderness  for  her. 
Many  a  nature  which,  like  his,  seems  sealed  to 
the  ordinary  observer,  has  these  back  windows 
which  it  opens  shyly  now  and  then  to  a  few  priv 
ileged  ones,  disclosing  the  same  heart  which  oth 
ers,  with  equal  naturalness,  wear  on  their  sleeve. 
Usually,  on  Saturday  evening,  M.  Michel  brought 
his  offering  in  person  :  but  these  pearls  he  had 
quietly  placed  on  ReneVs  table,  where  she  found 


166  BUT   YET  A    WOMAN. 

them  on  going  to  dress;  and  no  one  will  ever  know 
whether  this  bashfulness  was  due  to  the  unusual 
magnitude  of  the  gift,  or  whether  both  the  gift 
and  the  giving  were  the  confession  of  an  affection 
which  insisted  upon  escaping  restraint  now  that 
its  object  was  about  to  take  wing. 

Yes,  she  looked  really  charming  to-night.  Her 
beauty  had  suddenly  assumed  a  value  which  it 
had  not  before  possessed,  as  when  a  statue,  seen 
in  some  new  or  stronger  light,  seems  all  at  once  to 
breathe;  and  it  caused  M.  de  Marzac  to  say  to 
Madame  Valfort, — 

"  Mademoiselle  Michel  is  no  longer  a  child ;  she 
is  a  woman." 

"  And  that  surprises  you?  " 
"  The  transformation  is  common  enough,  to  be 
sure,  but  it  is  not  always  so  ravishing.'* 
"  You  are  late  in  discovering  it." 
"I?  late?" 

"  Yes,  late,  as  usual  ;  but  not  you  particularly. 
You  gentlemen  see  only  what  is  thrust  under  your 
very  eyes." 

"  There  is  not  sun  or  light  enough  in  the  Rue 
du  Bac  for  such  a  flower,"  said  M.  de  Marzac,  fol 
lowing  Rdnde  with  his  eyes. 

"  She  will  find  enough  of  both  in  Spain." 
"  In  Spain  ? "   he   said,  looking   up   with   sm> 
prise. 

"  Do  you  not  know  she  is  going  to  Spain  ?  She 
leaves  next  week,  with  Madame  Milevski."  And 


BUT  YET  A    WOMAN.  167 

while  Madame  Valforfc  was  confiding  to  M.  de 
Marzac  the  history  of  this  proposed  journey,  the 
door  opened,  and  Roger  entered. 

On  coming  back  from  Beauvais,  Roger  had  en 
deavored  to  persuade  himself  that  he  had  been 
dreaming.  The  realities  of  life,  and  his  work, 
seemed  on  his  return  more  than  ever  attractive ; 
for  he  had  really  been  in  need  of  rest,  and  he  came 
back  with  that  zest  and  elasticity  which  an  active 
man  always  experiences  after  a  temporary  relax 
ation.  When  a  vision  of  that  wooden  seat  by  the 
water's  edge  under  the  rocks  of  Mont  St.  Jean 
came  to  him,  he  put  it  away  with  thoughts  of  the 
long  row  of  cots  at  the  H5tel-Dieu  St.  Luc,  the 
lecture  he  was  to  deliver,  or  the  appointments 
which  filled  his  calendar.  And  yet,  when  first  he 
saw  the  black  figure  of  Soeur  Ursule  ag;iin,  he 
started,  as  if  he  expected  to  see  Renee's  face  under 
its  black  veil ;  and  when  the  day,  with  its  absorb 
ing  work,  was  over,  and  night  came  with  its  mo 
ments  of  quiet  loneliness  or  weariness,  it  required 
sometimes  the  hurried  ring  of  his  door-bell  to 
banish  a  pair  of  gray  eyes  and  drown  the  tones  of 
a  sweet  voice. 

M.  Lande  had  not  expected  so  ready  an  acqui 
escence  when  he  called  at  his  son's  room  to  urge 
his  acceptance  of  M.  Michel's  invitation.  He  was 
accustomed  to  meet  with  an  excuse  and  a  refusal. 
But  men  of  strong  will  and  firm  purposes  make 
sudden  changes  which  are  thoroughly  in  keeping 


BUT  YET  A  WOMAN. 

with  their  character.  Inflexible  as  they  are,  for 
this  very  reason  when  they  yield,  it  is  like  a  brit 
tle  bar  which  snaps,  but  does  not  bend.  They 
give  none  of  the  external  signs  of  resistance  ;  all 
their  tension  is  within.  When  M.  Lande  an 
nounced  ReneVs  departure  for  Spain,  Roger  laid 
down  his  book  and  promised  to  follow  him.  He 
was  on  the  watershed  of  resolution,  and  this  sin 
gle  remark,  accidental  and  trivial  as  the  stone 
which,  in  the  path  of  the  current,  determines  its 
direction,  had  decided  him.  The  pros  and  cons 
are  often  so  evenly  balanced  in  our  lives  that  the 
decision  depends  upon  whether  the  next  event  be 
odd  or  even.  M.  Lande  was  pleased.  This  man 
was  still  "his  little  Roger."  He  was  always  de 
lighted  to  accompany  him  anywhere,  for  he  was 
proud  of  him,  and  at  such  times  had  the  air  of 
saying,  "  This  great  man  is  my  son."  But,  be 
sides  this  pardonable  vanity,  the  fact  that  Roger 
appeared  in  the  least  to  be  letting  go  some  theories 
and  views  of  life  he  had  always  combated  gave  him 
the  greater  pleasure,  and  he  went  away  saying  to 
himself,  "  After  all,  it  is  not  what  he  does,  but 
what  he  snys  only,  which  troubles  me." 

Roger  thought  Reside  received  him  coolly.  As 
if  the  phases  of  our  feelings  always  matched  I  Or, 
were  this  the  case  with  Rdne'e,  as  if  she  would 
havo  permitted  him  to  know  ifc !  There  was  no 
lack  of  warmth  in  the  greeting  he  received  from 
M.  Michel  or  from  Father  Le  Blanc,  neither  of 


BUT  YET  A   WOMAN.  169 

whom  he  had  seen  since  his  return  ;  but  the  con 
versation  into  which  he  was  drawn  —  for  the 
gentlemen  were  discussing  the  political  events  of 
the  day  — failed  to  interest  him.  He  looked  over 
constantly  to  the  corner  where  Renee  had  joined 
Madame  Valfort  and  was  chatting  with  M.  de 
Marzac,  — to  no  purpose,  however,  for  M.  Scherer 
was  speaking,  and,  like  an  ancient  oracle,  must  be 
listened  to  with  respect. 

"  No,"  he  was  saying,  "  even  if  the  monarchy 
had  been  restored,  it  would  have  had  a  brief  day. 
The  chiefs  shook  hands,  to  be  sure,  but  the  armies 
never  united." 

"Then  you  were  not  deceived  by  all  these  pour 
parlers,"  said  M.  Lande. 

"  Not  in  the  least." 

"  I  am  glad  of  it.  I  do  not  like  to  wake  in  the 
morning  to  find  I  have  changed  my  domicile.  Last 
night  I  lived  in  the  Rue  du  Deux  Decembre,  this 
morning  in  the  Rue  du  Quatre  Septembre,  and  I 
was  afraid  to-morrow  it  would  be  Rue  Henri 
Cinq." 

"  We  make  history  so  fast  in  our  dear  France," 
said  Father  Le  Blanc. 

"  Too  fast !  too  fast !  One  is  obliged  to  ask 
like  Greuze,  '  And  who  is  king  to-day  ?  ' 

"  The  monarchy  of  Henri  V.,  messieurs,  is  to 
day  an  impossibility,"  continued  M.  Scherer. 
"The  alliance  between  the  count  and  the  princes 
was  a  mere  formality,  —  as  one  pauses  at  a  door 


170  BUT  YET  A  WOMAN. 

to  say,  *  You  first,  monsieur,'  and  then  enters.  1 
have  known  the  count  too  long  to  share  the  belief, 
so  seriously  entertained,  that  he  was  about  to  give 
France  a  liberal  monarchy.  It  seemed  for  a  time, 
perhaps,  that  he  was  about  to  yield,"  he  said  with 
a  shrug,  "but  those  who  assumed  to  speak  for  him 
did  not  comprehend  him.  In  the  hope  of  success, 
they  promised  too  much,  and  in  the  end  would 
themselves  have  been  no  less  royal  than  the  king. 
In  politics,  temperament  is  stronger  than  promises, 
and  outlives  them." 

"  And  principles  are  stronger  than  tempera 
ment,"  said  Father  Le  Blanc. 

"  Principles  regulate  governments,  but  do  not 
determine  them.  Governments  are  like  garments  ; 
we  outgrow  them  and  seek  new  ones." 

u  Exactly,"  said  the  priest ;  "and  I,  who  always 
wear  the  same  one,  quarrel  with  the  fashion." 

"  You  make  my  comparison  go  on  all  fours," 
said  M.  Soberer,  with  a  deprecatory  gesture. 
"  Humanity  is  the  determining  factor  ;  the  gov 
ernment  follows  where  it  leads.  If  you  wish  per 
manence  in  this  form  and  society  which  envelops 
man,  arrest  his  development.  One  is  only  the 
expression  of  the  other.  Between  the  two  there 
is  the  sign  of  equality  ;  or,  if  not,"  with  another 
shrug,  u  why,  then,  revolution  restores  the  equi 
librium.  I  hold  to  my  simile  in  its  original  sense. 
The  nation  is  a  growing  child;  if  his  government 
does  not  fit  him,  he  will  burst  the  seams,  and  the 


BUT  YET  A   WOMAN.  171 

only  remedy  is  to  give  him  a  new  one,  or,  like  the 
Bonapartists,  put  him  in  a  strait  jacket." 

The  door  opened  again,  and  Stephanie  entered. 
There  was  a  hush  as  if  by  magic.  M.  de  Marzac, 
who  had  been  waiting  for  this  moment,  with  eyes 
riveted  upon  her  face,  watched  her  every  move 
ment,  as  he  would  scrutinize  an  adversary  at  a 
distance,  before  advancing  to  engage  his  sword. 
Renee  went  forward  to  meet  her  eagerly.  He  felt 
her  eyes  as,  in  their  survey  of  the  guests,  they 
passed  over  him  without  recognition,  and  saw 
them  rest  for  a  moment  upon  Roger  Lande.  Was 
it  only  his  jealous  fancy  ?  Or  did  they  rest  there 
as  on  the  person  for  whom  they  were  searching  ? 

Roger  profited  by  this  interruption  to  approach 
Rene'e ;  and  Stephanie,  after  exchanging  a  few 
words  with  the  gentlemen  who  had  come  forward 
to  meet  her,  advanced  straight  to  the  sofa  where 
Madame  Valfort  was  sitting  with  M.  de  Marzac. 

"  Quelle  diable  de  femme  !  "  thought  the  latter. 
But  he  was  a  man  of  self-possession.  The  swords 
were  crossed,  and  he  felt  the  nerve  which  the  du 
elist  gains  when  he  feels  the  strength  of  his  op 
ponent's  wrist. 

"  M.  de  Marzac  has  been  amusing  me  by  rela 
ting  the  discoveries  which  he  has  made,"  said 
Madame  Valfort. 

41  He  has  been  entertaining  me  in  a  similar 
manner.  What  is  this  new  one  which  you  find  so 
amusing  ?  " 


172  BUT  YET  A   WOMAN. 

44  He  has  just  found  out  that  our  little  Re*ne*e  is 
adorable." 

44  You  give  me  a  credit  which  I  see  does  not  be 
long  to  me  only,"  replied  M.  de  Marzac.  "Look! 
It  would  seem  that  M.  Lande  has  also  made  this 
discovery."  He  was  still  watching  Stephanie's 
eyes,  and,  although  they  neither  met  his  nor 
avoided  them,  he  was  confident  that  he  had  made 
a  second  discovery  of  far  more  importance. 

44  Really,"  said  Madame  Valfort,  looking  at  the 
two  young  people,  who  were  in  a  most  earnest 
conversation,  44  it  seems  so.  What  Argus  eyes  you 
have  !  "  and,  turning  to  Stephanie,  44  Your  voyage 
to  Spain  may  not  prove  necessary." 

44  Or  more  than  ever  so,"  said  M.  de  Marzac. 

"  Why  so  ?  You  have  accorded  to  mademoi 
selle  beauty,  and  you  must  admit  M.  Lande  has 
talent.  It  would  be  an  admirable  match." 

44  Shall  I  offer  you  a  glass  of  Malaga,  madame  ?" 
said  M.  de  Marzac  to  Stephanie,  taking  the  silver 
flagon  from  the  tray  which  Baptisle  presented 
him. 

44  Ask  M.  Michel  what  vintage  it  is,"  she  replied, 
coolly.  <4  New  Malaga  is  intolerable." 

M.  de  Marzac  flushed.  This  question,  so  im 
possible  for  a  guest  to  ask  of  his  host,  was  an 
intimation  he  could  but  accept.  But  he  did  not 
flinch,  and,  appearing  to  accept  the  mission  as 
naturally  as  it  had  been  given  to  him,  bowed  and 
retired. 


BUT  YET  A   WOMAN.  173 

"  Ma  chSre,  vous  etes  un  pen  mordante,"  said 
Madame  Valfort,  laughing.  "  But  the  temptation 
excuses  you.  And  the  wonder  is  he  will  value 
YOU  none  the  less  for  it.  By  being  too  good  one 
becomes  actually  stupid." 

But  Stephanie  scarcely  heard  her.  On  M.  de 
Marzac's  withdrawal  she  had  for  the  first  time 
looked  over  at  Renee. 

"  So  you  are  going  away,  to  leave  us,  made- 
moiselle,"  Roger  was  saying  to  her. 

"  I  can  hardly  do  one  and  not  the  other,"  she 
replied.  "  And  it  takes  away  from  my  pleasure 
in  going  to  think  that  my  uncle  will  miss  me.  He 
does  not  say  so,  but  I  know  he  will." 

44  And  so  shall  I." 

"  You  !  M.  Lande  ?  " 

"  Why  not?  "  he  said,  gently.  "  Am  I  to  be 
the  exception  to  all  your  friends  ?  You  will  not 
deny  my  claim  to  the  title,  will  you,  mademoi 
selle  ?  " 

Words  are  nothing,  save  as  we  dwell  in  them. 
The  same  sentence  may  be  a  sword  of  flame  or  of 
steel,  as  we  ourselves  are  cold  or  hot,  or,  if  indif 
ferent,  as  we  often  are  in  going  through  the  sham 
fights  and  parades  of  society,  a  stage  weapon  with 
neither  edge,  point,  nor  weight.  Any  of  ReneVs 
acquaintances  might  thus  have  claimed  admission 
to  the  circle  of  her  friendship,  or  expressed  a  regret 
at  her  departure,  in  those  self-same  words,  without 
sending  the  blood  up  where  the  pearls  lay  about 


174:  BUT   YET  A   WOMAN. 

her  throat.  In  Roger's  question,  simple  as  it  was, 
and  quietly  asked,  there  was  a  meaning  which  lay 
neither  in  its  form  or  its  tone,  and  it  pressed  like 
a  strong  arm  against  the  door  of  her  heart. 

And  Father  Le  Blanc,  who  at  that  moment 
happened  to  be  looking  at  Madame  Milevski,  — 
for  her  face  always  attracted  him,  — discovered  a 
sadness  in  it  he  had  not  seen  before.  Was  it  only 
that,  being  supposed  to  have  had  her  day,  the 
scene  which  was  passing  under  her  eyes,  and  which 
Father  Le  Blanc  saw  also,  made  her  realize  it  ? 
But  she  seemed  herself  too  young,  and  too  beau 
tiful,  to  have  had  all  her  day.  Or  was  there 
something  in  that  past  of  hers,  thought  he,  which 
dragged  upon  her  even  more  heavily  as  she 
looked  at  Rende  ?  Time,  it  is  true,  covers  over  our 
pains  and  our  sorrows ;  experience  overlies  them 
in  layers  ;  but  they  are  there,  even  when  forgot 
ten  ;  and  we  drag  them  after  us  as  weights,  or 
carry  them  as  scars,  no  matter  how  easily  Time 
may  bribe  Memory.  "  A  woman  begins  to  grow 
old  as  soon  as  her  dream  is  over,"  he  thought. 
"  But  then,"  said  this  shrewd  old  observer  to  him 
self,  looking  from  Roger  to  Stephanie  again,  "  ono 
may  grow  sad  because  a  dream  just  begun  cannot 
be  realized  !  It  is  quite  possible  ;  they  would  be 
worthy  of  each  other.  Bah  !  This  wise  Nature 
of  whom  we  hear  so  much  nowadays  sows  at  ran 
dom,  with  her  eyes  shut ! ' 

Roger  was  unconscious  of  both  Stephanie's  gaze 


BUT  YET  A  WOMAN.  175 

and  the  priest's  reflections;  as  also  of  Baptiste, 
who  had  brought  a  message,  and  was  finally  obliged 
to  say,  "  Monsieur  !  "  aloud,  to  make  known  his 
presence. 

44  Say  that  I  cannot  go,"  said  Roger,  on  hearing 
it;  "that  I  will  come  to-morrow." 

44  The  messenger  says  that  it  is  urgent,  and  that 
his  master  will  take  no  refusal." 

Roger's  eyebrows  contracted,  but  he  said  noth 
ing,  and  Baptiste  retired. 

"  I  wish  you  would  go,  M.  Lande,"  said  Renee, 
timidly. 

"  Why  ?  "  he  said,  surprised.  "  If  I  were  to 
obey  every  call,  I  should  neither  eat  nor  sleep." 

44  But  the  call  of  distress.  I  could  never  ac 
custom  myself  to  it,  and,  after  refusing  it,  could 
neither  eat  nor  sleep.  Time,  monsieur,  is  so  pre 
cious  to  the  sick  and  to  the  dying." 

Her  earnestness  disconcerted  him. 

44  If  you  should  regret  it,  —  if,  on  my  ac^ 
count  "  — 

44 1  do  not  refuse  on  your  account.  I  stay  to 
please  myself.  But,"  he  added,  for  he  saw  Rende 
vvas  in  earnest,  44 1  will  go  —  to  please  you." 

44  You  make  me  appear  unreasonable,  where 
as  "  — 

"  No !  on  the  contrary,"  he  interrupted  again, 
"  it  is  I  who  appear  selfish,  for  it  will  give  me 
more  pleasure  to  go,  now,  than  to  stay.  Good- 
by/'  he  said,  rising.  4t  I  shall  not  see  you  again." 


176  BUT   YET  A   WOMAN. 

"  Good-by,"  she  said. 

That  was  all.  But  she  was  conscious  for  the 
first  time  of  a  sovereignty,  and  the  sense  of  pleas 
ure  in  her  heart  escaped  to  her  face.  He  saw  it 
there  as  she  looked  up,  and  it  repaid  him. 

He  made  his  excuses  to  M.  Michel,  and  then 
crossed  the  room  to  say  good-by  to  Stephanie. 
He  felt  towards  her  that  sympathy  which  we  have 
for  the  woman  who  knows  our  secret  and  has  thus 
become  our  confidante.  But  she  did  not  take  up 
the  conversation  where  it  had  been  left  that  sum 
mer  night  on  the  ride  back  from  the  Chateau  of 
Beauvais.  She  seemed  a  little  railleuse  ;  why,  he 
did  not  know;  and,  as  he  left,  this  provoked  him 
to  say  :  — 

"  I  gave  your  message  to  my  friend." 

"  Ah  !  "  she  replied.  "  I  hope  he  proved  ra 
tional." 

"  Would  you  consider  him  irrational  if  he  dif 
fered  from  you  ?  " 

"  Why  make  needless  suppositions  ?  " 

"  To  see  what  you  would  say." 

"  I  should  say  nothing." 

"Yet  you  once  gave  him  advice." 

"  Only  to  take  counsel  with  himself,  which  is 
very  simple  if  one  is  honest." 

"  Will  you  permit  me  to  ask  you  a  question?  " 
he  said,  bluntly. 

kk  A  second  one  ?     Certainly." 

"Are  you  taking  Mademoiselle  Rene*e  to  Spain 
because  of  me  ?  " 


BUT   YET  A   WOMAN.  177 

"  I  might  say  '  yes,'  and  not  be  your  enemy,*' 
Bhe  replied. 

He  hesitated  a  moment,  and  their  eyes  met. 
He  thought  of  what  Father  Le  Blanc  had  said. 
"  One  never  sees  the  bottom."  But  this  did  not 
inspire  distrust.  The  light  of  those  eyes  was  as 
pure  and  steadfast  as  that  of  a  planet.  If  he  had 
been  in  doubt  as  to  her  meaning,  that  look  scat 
tered  every  misgiving. 

"  Madame,  it  is  impossible  for  you  to  deceive 
me!" 

She  misunderstood  him  willfully. 

"  I  think  you  could  be  deceived  very  easily,  M. 
Lande." 

"  Not  by  you.     You  are  incapable  of  it." 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  am  deceiving  you  this  in« 
Btant." 

She  laughed  nervously,  and  he  regretted  the 
directness  of  his  compliment. 

"  And  yet  I  am  content.  Well,  I  wish  you  a 
pleasant  journey.  Good-night,"  he  said,  reluc 
tantly.  He  wished  the  wall  were  broken  down. 

"  Good-by,"  she  replied. 

1* 


178  BUT  YET  A  WOMAN. 


xn. 

ON  the  afternoon  of  the  day  preceding  that  of 
Madame  Milevski's  departure  with  Renee,  Father 
Le  Blanc  set  out  from  his  lodgings  in  the  Rue 
Tiquetonne,  and  crossing  the  Rue  de  Montmartre 
which  led  to  St.  Eustache,  turned  into  the  Rue 
J.  J.  Rousseau.  This  was  a  sign  that  he  was  going 
out  for  a  promenade,  wherein  he  always  blended 
pleasure  with  duty  ;  and  Stephanie,  in  her  account 
of  the  manner  in  which  he  surveyed  the  view  from 
the  chateau  at  Beauvais,  had  exactly  described 
the  manner  in  which  he  took  his  enjoyment. 

For  all  the  many  times  he  had  passed  down  the 
Rue  J.  J.  Rousseau,  he  had  by  no  means  ex 
hausted  its  resources.  He  stopped  before  every 
window,  in  which  he  was  ever  discovering  some 
thing  new,  and  he  kept  up  a  running  commentary 
upon  all  he  saw,  mingled  with  a  soliloquy  on  things 
human  and  divine.  At  the  corner  of  the  Rue 
Coquilliere  he  'hesitated,  as  usual :  he  was  mak 
ing  up  his  mind  whether  he  should  turn  to  the 
right  and  pass  by  the  Palais  Royal  through  the 
Place  du  Carrousel,  or  to  the  left  over  the  Pont 
au  Change.  The  former  route  would  have  led  him 
to  the  bookstalls  on  the  Quai  Voltaire,  the  latter 


BUT  YET  A   WOMAN.  179 

through  the  lie  du  Palais,  both  of  which  places 
possessed  for  him  a  strong  attraction.  He  decided 
on  the  first,  and  entered  the  Palais  Royal  by  the 
Rue  Baillif.  Here  it  was  not  so  much  the  glit 
tering  shops  which  interested  him,  as  the  garden 
with  its  children  and  shaded  seats;  nevertheless, 
with  his  hands  crossed  behind  his  back,  he  never 
failed  to  examine  the  brilliant  display  of  wares 
multiplied  by  the  reflecting  mirrors,  or  to  stand 
for  a  moment,  as  if  he  saw  it  for  the  first  time, 
before  the  glass  dial  plate  over  whose  transparent 
face  the  skeleton  hands  moved  mysteriously,  urged 
by  an  invisible  power. 

But  Father  Le  Blanc  used  his  eyes  judiciously 
For  certain  windows  he  had  a  supreme  contempt. 
Paste  diamonds  failed  to  hold  him  for  a  moment ; 
he  had  no  love  for  vases  simply  because  they  were 
made  by  an  Arab  in  Tangiers,  or  for  sleepy-look 
ing  women,  sitting  tranquilly  upon  nothing,  sim 
ply  because  they  were  painted  in  Japan.  The 
novel  and  the  bizarre  never  blinded  his  keen  eye 
for  the  beautiful,  and  he  did  not  tarry  long  before 
objects  whose  claims  to  consideration  rested  only 
on  their  being  old,  or  from  over-seas.  If  one  would 
know  what  retained  him  longest,  search  for  that 
which,  with  age,  possessed  beauty  also  ;  with  in 
trinsic  worth,  old  associations.  Before  a  bronze 
lamp,  with  fragile  silver  chains,  before  a  reliquary 
from  the  hands  of  the  Flemish  goldsmith,  he 
would  linger  a  good  half  hour ;  for  they  led  him 


180  BUT  YET  A   WOMAN. 

back  to  the  charming  villas  of  Rome  or  to  the 
vast  world  of  Gothic  manner  and  adventure. 

Many  a  child  in  the  garden  knew  this  venerable 
face,  and  could  distinguish  this  portly  figure  and 
somewhat  slow  step  from  among  the  crowds  which 
thronged  the  corridors ;  and  many  of  them  had 
felt  the  kindly  pressure  of  his  heavy  hand  upon 
their  heads. 

After  a  half-hour's  rest,  he  passed  out  by  the 
front  entrance  and  traversed  the  Place  du  Carrou 
sel,  in  the  middle  of  which  he  might  -be  seen  stop 
ping  now  and  then,  like  some  stranger,  with  eyes 
fixed  meditatively  upon  the  pile  which  surrounded 
him,  as  though  he  were  reading  that  history,  som 
bre  and  momentous,  which  belongs  fco  the  palace 
of  the  French  kings.  Another  halting-place  was 
on  the  bridge  beyond,  from  whose  life  and  move 
ment  he  betook  himself  to  the  musty  but  beloved 
bookstalls  of  the  Quai  Voltaire. 

But  to-day,  as  he  crossed  the  bridge,  he  was 
thinking  of  other  things.  He  was  wondering  why 
Madame  Milevski  should  suddenly  carry  off  Rdnce 
to  Spain.  "It  is  restlessness,"  he  said  to  him 
self;  then,  as  his  thoughts  recurred  to  what  he 
had  seen  in  M.  Michel's  salon,  he  sighed.  "  Bah!" 
he  continued  half  aloud,  with  the  air  of  one  who 
wishes  to  persuade  himself  against  his  fears, 
"  I  am  imagining  a  tragedy.  And  yet,  if  it  be 
true  —  Well,  I  believe  in  her  !  She  is  capable 
of  this  heroism.  —  What  paths  God  traces  out  foi 


BUT  YET  A    WOMAN.  181 

as  !  If  only  we  know  that  it  is  He  who  leads  us, 
we  can  follow." 

Father  Le  Blanc  had  a  profound  belief  in  hu 
man  agencies.  He  loved  to  play  the  ministering 
angel,  for  his  heart  was  a  well  of  sympathy.  There 
was  even  a  latent  chiding  of  Providence  at  the 
bottom  of  this  well  sometimes,  when  the  sight  of 
the  poor  and  the  suffering  stirred  its  depths  with 
pity  for  those  lonely  wayfarers  who,  neglected  by 
this  world,  seem  forgotten  also  of  God.  This 
was  but  one  of  those  many  themes  which  this 
mind,  at  once  simple,  honest,  and  profound,  turned 
over  and  over  reflectively,  never  seeing  its  one 
aspect  except  as  on  the  way  to  the  other.  "  The 
difficulty  does  not  lie  in  believing  the  truths  of  the 
Church,"  he  once  said,  "  but  in  those  other  things 
which  we  must  believe  also."  Or  again,  u  Belief 
is  an  edifice  never  completed,  because  we  do  not 
yet  comprehend  its  plan,  and  every  day  some  work 
man  brings  a  new  stone  from  the  quarry."  So 
that  while  Father  Le  Blanc  was  very  devout,  he 
was  not  a  devotee.  He  flavored  his  religious  be 
lief  with  the  salt  of  a  good  sense,  against  which 
he  endeavored  to  be  on  his  guard,  as  he  was  even 
against  his  charity  and  compassion.  The  vision 
of  Milton's  fallen  Spirit,  beating  its  wings  vainly 
in  a  non-resisting  air,  drew  from  his  heart  a  pro 
found  sigh. 

His  thoughts  turned  very  naturally  to  Stdpha- 
nie  and  her  journey,  that  day,  for  he  was  on  the 


182  BUT  YET  A    WOMAN. 

way  to  secure  the  nineteenth  volume  of  the  "  Vi* 
aje  de  Espafia,"  of  Pontz,  for  which  he  had  been 
long  on  the  search,  and  which  awaited  him  at  last 
on  the  Quai  Voltaire.  Those  old  books  which 
filled  the  shelves  of  his  room  in  the  Rue  Tique- 
tonne  had  left  his  purse  a  light  one.  "lint,"  said 
Father  Lc  Blanc,  "  I  am  not  poor,  since  I  have 
what  I  want." 

After  possessing  himself  of  his  coveted  book,  he 
took  up  his  way  along  the  quai,  with  his  treasure 
under  his  arm.  "  I  have  a  mind  to  call  on  her," 
he  said,  still  thinking  of  Stephanie.  "  The  art  of 
knowing  when  one  is  needed  is  more  difficult  than 

O 

that  of  helping  ;  "  and  he  paused  on  the  curb 
stone  to  watch  a  company  of  the  line,  coming 
from  the  caserne  of  the  Citd.  A  carriage,  ar 
rested  a  moment  by  the  passage  of  the  troops, 
approached  the  spot  where  he  was  standing,  and 
he  recognized  M.  de  Marzac.  The  priest  was  evi 
dently  sauntering,  and  M.  de  Marzac  called  to  his 
driver  to  stop. 

"  I  see  you  are  out  for  a  promenade,"  he  said. 
"  Accept  this  seat  beside  me,  and  take  a  turn  with 
me  in  the  Bois." 

Father  Le  Blanc  was  not  in  his  second  child 
hood,  for  he  had  not  yet  outgrown  his  first;  con 
sequently  the  temptation  was  a  strong  one.  But 
M.  de  Marzac  was  no  favorite  of  his,  and  not  even 
the  fine  day,  nor  this  opportunity  to  enjoy  it,  could 
counterbalance  M.  de  Marzac's  company.  Dis- 


BUT  YET  A    WOMAN.  183 

like  at  first  sight  is  more  common  than  love,  as 
discord  is  more  common  than  harmony.  So  he 
excused  himself  as  about  to  make  a  visit.  "  Well, 
then,  that  decides  it,"  lie  said  to  himself,  as  he 
trudged  down  the  quai  with  the  gait  of  a  man 
with  an  object  in  view.  "Now  I  must  go." 

At  the  door  of  the  h3tel  in  the  Boulevard  St. 
Germain  he  stopped  a  moment,  before  entering, 
and  took  a  deep  inspiration.  To  tell  the  truth, 
the  day  was  so  fine  he  regretted  going  indoors. 
"  I  feel  that  I  have  a  pair  of  lungs,"  he  said,  as 
he  rang  the  porter's  bell. 

Stephanie  was  not  expecting  a  visit  from  Father 
Le  Blanc,  yet  was  glad  to  see  him.  She  was  in 
that  period  which  lies  after  decision  and  before 
action,  when,  having  made  all  her  preparations 
for  an  early  start  in  the  express  of  the  next  morn 
ing,  there  was  nothing  to  be  done  but  sit  down 
and  wait  for  the  hour  of  departure. 

"  The  air  is  so  pure  that  I  feared  to  find  you 
were  out.  And  you  go  to-morrow  !  " 

"  Yes,"  Stephanie  said,  "  Si  Dios  quiere,  as  the 
Spaniards  say." 

"  But  I  shall  be  there  before  you.  I  leave  this 
evening." 

"  This  evening  !  " 

"  And  without  fatigue/'  said  the  priest,  myste 
riously,  drawing  his  volume  from  under  his  arm. 

It  is  my  nineteenth  journey." 

"You  have  been  to  Spain?"  said  Stephanie, 
taking  the  book,  but  still  perplexed. 


181  BUT  YET  A    WOMAN. 

"  Oh,  never!  except  in  those  leaves  which  you 
are  turning;  and  for  two  reasons,"  he  added, 
laughingly  ;  "  the  guide-books  tell  us  that  there 
are  in  Spain  priests  by  the  thousand,  but  not  a 
single  cook !  Still,  you  perceive  that  I  am  about 
to  follow  you,  and  who  knows !  shall,  perhaps, 
lodge  at  the  same  inn.  That  is  a  country  in  which 
nothing  becomes  obsolete,  and  I  have  no  doubt 
but  that,  if  you  inquire  for  it,  they  will  show  you 
in  Toboso  the  very  fonda  at  which  Don  Quixote 
dismounted." 

Stephanie  thought  she  heard  in  this  pleasantry 
something  more  than  was  said.  Certainly  Father 
Le  Blanc  had  not  even  whispered,  "  Though  you 
are  going  away,  my  child,  I  shall  follow  you  in 
my  thoughts  and  in  my  prayers  :  "  and  yet,  that 
is  what  she  heard.  Some  of  his  most  common 
place  sentences  were  so  many  half-hidden  channels, 
such  as  the  brooks  make  under  the  grass  of  the 
meadows,  into  which  overflowed  the  currents  of 
his  sympathy  and  kindliness.  In  spite  of  a  strong 
natural  reserve,  an  invincible  trust  in  this  homely 
face,  crowned  with  white  hairs,  mastered  her. 

"You  are  very  good  to  think  of  me,  father,'' 
she  said,  in  a  voice  so  full  that  it  brought  straight 
from  his  heart  the  message  he  had  come  to  de 
liver. 

"  All  who  suffer  are  my  children  ;  and  you  suf 
fer,  —  and  that  grieves  me.  The  Master  who 
took  upon  himself  the  sorrows  of  the  world,  bade 


BUT   YET  A    WOMA\.  185 

his  followers  imitate  him.  Why  will  you  not 
lean  a  little  upon  me,  daughter  ?  I  am  an  old  man 
who  has  traveled  the  path  before  you." 

She  turned  her  eyes  upon  him,  and  they  said, 
"  I  do  not  speak,  but  read,  and  comfort  me." 

"Sorrow  is  a  very  real  thing,"  he  continued  in 
a  voice  full  of  sweetness  and  authority.  "It  is 
neither  a  morbid  nor  an  unhealthy  state.  When 
it  seems  deepest ;  when,  after  the  world  has  failed 
us,  self  also  proves  insufficient,  it  may  even  be  a 
blessed  one.  I  do  not  chide,  I  even  agree  with 
you.  But  I  wish  you  also  to  agree  with  me.  Be 
our  life  wide  or  narrow,  whether  we  live  humbly 
or  sit  on  a  throne,  whether  we  dwell  in  our  own 
thoughts,  in  the  midst  of  action  or  in  the  search 
of  pleasure,  we  come  to  the  verdict  of  the  He 
brew  king,  —  that  verdict  which  I  read  in  your 
face  and  which  broods  over  your  life.  All  is 
emptiness  and  vanity  !  It  is  not  the  range  but  the 
depth  of  our  experience  which  convinces  us,  and 
from  the  first  we  apprehend  this  truth  dimly.  We 
own  this  sad  statue  of  Sorrow  in  the  block  from 
the  outset,  before  experience  chisels  it  out  for  us  ; 
and  in  our  first  search  for  happiness,  when  we 
look  on  the  splendors  of  the  young  world  for  what 
they  do  not  contain,  it  is  this  intimation  of  what 
they  cannot  yield,  and  the  capacity  of  our  own 
natures,  which  both  allure  and  deceive  us." 

She  seemed  to  be  listening  to  the  story  of  her 
own  life. 


186  BUT  YET  A  WOMAN. 

"  And,  as  we  live  on,  this  conviction  deepens. 
The  voices  without  echo  and  reinforce  those 
within.  We  are  ever  looking  to  something  better 
than  we  have  or  are,  and  whether  we  attain  it  or 
lose  it,  there  is  no  rest  for  our  feet.  It  is  the  man 
who  is  fooled  and  deluded  that  is  to  be  pitied. 
He  who  finds  life  and  self  sufficient  is  either  a 
monster  or  a  caricature.  Do  you  not  see  that 
I  do  not  argue  with  your  tears?  But  do  not  think 
to  dry  them  in  Spain,  my  child.  Sorrow  is  the 
handmaid  of  God,  not  of  Satan.  She  would  lead 
us,  as  she  did  the  Psalmist,  to  say,  '  Who  will 
show  us  any  good  ?  '  that,  after  having  said  this, 
we  may  also  say  with  him,  4  Lord,  lift  thou  the 
light  of  thy  countenance  upon  us.'  " 

"  All  else  is  a  broken  cistern,"  said  Father  Le 
Blanc,  taking  up  his  thoughts  after  a  pause.  "  See 
how  time  deceives  us !  He  covers  the  sore,  he 
even  heals  the  wound,  but  he  gives  no  immunity 
from  a  fresh  one."  Stephanie's  eyes  fell.  "  God 
only  renders  us  superior  to  calamity.  Honestly," 
said  he,  lifting  his  hands  as  if  he  appealed  to  his 
own  conscience,  "  priest  of  God  though  I  am,  in 
understanding  I  am  as  a  child.  I  cannot  explain, 
—  I  testify.  I  witness  to  you  this  mystery,  that 
out  of  the  very  hurt  which  brings  me  low,  the  spir 
itual  life  is  developed.  And,"  he  added,  as  he 
would  the  benediction  to  a  discourse  at  St.  Eus- 
tache,  "Blessed  are  the  poor  in  spirit,  blessed  are 
they  which  mourn,  blessed"  are  they  which  hunger 


BUT  YET  A    WOMAN.  187 

and  thirst,  for  these  are  they  which  shall  be  filled, 
for  theirs  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven." 

How  much  soever  of  gratefulness  she  felt  for 
these  words,  she  could  not  answer  them.  Had  he 
held  her  hand,  her  answer  would  have  been  a 
pressure.  But  Father  Le  Blanc  was  not  hurt  by 
her  silence.  Though-  words  bubbled  easily  over 
his  lips,  none  better  knew  the  difficulty  of  some 
times  saying,  "Thank  you."  He  sat  quietly, 
smoothing  the  wrinkles  of  his  soutane  over  his 
broad  knee,  with  his  eyes  on  the  floor. 

"  When  you  return,"  he  said  at  last,  looking 
up,  "  I  shall  ask  you  all  the  questions  which  are 
not  answered  in  my  nineteen  volumes.  Think  of 
it,  at  my  age !  never  to  have  seen  the  sea.  Yet 
I  have  lain  stretched  out  on  its  yellow  sands,  in 
the  sun,  listening  to  the  music  of  its  blue  waves 
—  in  the  Rue  Tiquetonne  !  And  when  I  go  to 
my  window  at  night,  it  is  to  stand  on  the  sum 
mit  of  some  high  cliff,  and  the  roar  of  the  city 
is  that  of  the  sea  at  its  base.  Chained  as  we  are 
to  our  little  patrimony  in  the  Rue  Tiqwetonne,  the 
imagination  is  a  free  rover  in  space  and  time.  I 
wager  you  are  surprised  to  hear  an  old  man  talk 
of  imagination,"  he  said,  taking  her  share  of  the 
conversation,  and  putting  in  her  mouth  the  replies 
which  he  wished  to  answer,  — "imagination,  which 
is  supposed  to  belong  only  to  youth.  I  say  rather 
youth  belongs  to  imagination,  which  is  then  a  wild 
Barbary  colt,  and  carries  one  wherever  it  wills ; 


188  BUT  YET  A    WOMAN. 

but  at  my  age  it  has  become  domesticated,  and  it 
is  on  its  back  that  I  have  ridden,  as  did  Sancho  on 
that  of  his  patient  donkey,  over  all  the  by-ways 
of  Spain.  And  when  you  see  some  worthy  col 
league  of  mine  on  his  ass,  plodding  before  you 
with  a  shovel  hat  on  his  head  a  metre  in  length, 
you  will  say  to  yourself,  4  There  is  my  friend  ahead 
of  me.'  " 

Her  hands  crossed  on  her  knees,  plunged  in  a 
delicious  revery  which  this  voice  penetrated  with 
out  disturbing,  Stephanie  raised  her  eyes  to  his 
face  and  smiled. 

He  took  his  book  from  the  table  where  she  had 
laid  it,  and  put  it  under  his  arm  again.  He  had 
dropped  his  few  seeds  of  comfort,  and  was  ready 
to  permit  God  to  water  them.  So  he  sought  an 
excuse  to  go. 

41  I  am  like  a  school- boy/'  he  said,  tapping  the 
volume,  "  with  a  new  copy-book,  who  cannot  rest 
till  he  has  written  something  on  the  first  page. 
What  a  good  friend  this  book  will  be !  I  count 
upon  him  in  advance,"  —  and  his  eyes  spoke  to 
hers,  —  "  he  will  not  speak  unless  I  question  him ; 
we  shall,  perchance,  differ  profoundly,  but  he  will 
not  reproach  me  ;  I  shall  rifle  his  pockets  and  put 
him  aside  at  my  pleasure,  yet  he  will  not  feel 
neglected.  I  shall  invite  him  to-night  to  a  tete- 
a-tete  before  my  fire,  and  fall  asleep  while  he  is 
doing  his  best  to  entertain  me  ;  but  when  I  awake, 
his  countenance  will  be  unruffled.  Doubtless  be- 


BUT  YET  A   WOMAN.  189 

cause  all  the  while  he  is  aware  that  I  still  prize 
him.  What  strange  things  we  do  to  those  whom 
we  love  !  Absolutely,  madame,"  said  Father  Le 
Blanc,  rising,  and  with  a  self-accusing  gesture,  "  I 
am  an  inveterate  sermonizer,  and  I  have  not  given 
you  even  the  opportunity  to  interrupt  me." 

Stephanie  followed  him  to  the  door  of  the  room, 
and  at  the  threshold  put  her  hand  softly  upon 
his  arm. 

"  Thanks,  father,  for  this  visit,"  she  said.  Her 
voice  was  low  ;  it  was  all  she  said,  but  her  look, 
and  that  gesture,  were  more  eloquent  than  words. 

u  I  say  to  you  as  they  will  say  to  you  in  Spain," 
replied  Father  Le  Blanc,  "  go  your  way  with  God, 
m}7  daughter." 

When  he  had  gone,  she  went  to  the  window 
and  watched  him  as  he  crossed  the  court-yard,  fol 
lowing  him  out  through  the  gates,  where  he  stopped 
to  say  something  to  the  porter,  who  touched  his 
hat  to  him.  She  seated  herself  there  in  the  wide 
open  window  which  projected  over  the  area,  as 
did  its  counterpart  at  the  other  end  of  the  room 
over  the  garden  in  the  rear.  Flanked  by  two  long 
and  narrow  projections,  this  court-yard  with  its 
large  paving-blocks  of  stone  was  not  very  invit 
ing  in  its  aspect.  It  was  in  the  other  window, 
overhanging  the  garden,  whose  casement  the  trees 
brushed,  over  which  the  vines  swayed  with  the 
wind,  that  she  loved  to  sit.  But  her  thoughts 
were  far  away. 


190  BUT  YET  A  WOMAN. 

It  was  still  early  in  the  afternoon,  but  the  sun 
went  slowly  down  behind  the  tall  roofs  of  the 
neighboring  houses  before  she  rose  to  do  what 
greatly  surprised  Lizette,  who  thought  madame 
altogether  too  murh  of  a  saint  for  a  woman  who 
neglected  mass  and  confession.  When  madame 
was  dressed,  and  Lizette  had  taken  her  place  be 
side  her  in  the  carriage,  she  wondered  at  the  route 
taken  by  the  coachman,  whose  instructions  she 
had  not  overheard.  She  supposed  they  were  go 
ing  to  the  Bois,  or  the  Pare  Monceau.  And  still 
greater  was  her  surprise  when  she  found  herself  a 
little  later  in  St.  Eustache,  placing  a  chair  for  ma- 
darne  at  the  vesper  service. 

It  was  nearly  over.  Father  Le  Blanc  himself 
in  the  pulpit  was  finishing  his  exhortation.  Here 
the  day  had  almost  gone.  The  shafts  of  the  col-? 
umns  rose  into  the  shadows,  which  had  begun  to 
gather  overhead,  like  massive  trunks  which  lose 
themselves  in  the  sombre  foliage  of  the  forest. 
The  lamp,  suspended  by  a  black  line  which  van 
ished  in  the  darkness  above,  hung  like  a  star  on 
the  horizon.  All  these  people  about  her  were  si 
lent,  and  the  words  of  the  preacher  gathered  force 
from  the  immense  space  in  which  they  were  ut 
tered ;  from  those  dim,  aspiring  vaults  into  which 
they  were  gathered,  and  where  they  died  away 
without  a  confusing  murmur. 

Break  your  theological  rocks,  O  ritual-hating 
brother,  on  the  King's  highway,  and  worship  Him 


BUT  YET  A  WOMAN.  191 

after  your  own  fashion.  For  every  way-faring 
heart  over-fed  upon  these  symbols,  you  shall  show 
us  one  starved  on  your  formula.  Not  only  for 
thy  weaker  brother,  to  whom  God  has  not  given 
the  brains  of  the  doctors  in  the  Temple,  shall  these 
vaults  of  stone  be  the  very  arches  of  heaven  ;  not 
only  for  thy  frailer  sister,  in  the  keeping  of  whose 
warm  heart  God  has  placed  the  sacred  things  of 
this  life,  shall  the  incense  of  this  swinging  censer 
be  the  very  fragrance  of  celestial  fields ;  but  unto 
many  of  thine  own  dignity,  also,  shall  this  star 
above  the  altar  be  the  very  star  of  Bethlehem. 

Stephanie  sat  in  the  outer  circle  of  the  congre 
gation.  Directly  in  front  of  her  was  an  old  woman 
with  thin  white  hair  straggling  out  from  beneath 
her  cap  ;  close  beside  the  rich  fold  of  her  dress 
she  saw  a  plain,  blue-and- white  checked  apron. 
She  listened. 

"  My  children,"  Father  Le  Blanc  was  saying, 
"  you  put  all  your  treasures  into  earthen  vessels. 
Your  aspirations,  so  noble,  soar  upward  like  the 
branches  of  the  tree,  but  your  roots  are  in  the 
earth  that  you  must  certainly  leave.  All  your 
faith  which  will  not  take  denial  ;  all  your  hopes 
which  will  not  be  gainsaid ;  all  your  wide-em 
bracing  affections,  you  place  in  humanity,  —  in  a 
few  frail  hearts  which  cannot  meet  the  infinity  of 
your  need  and  of  your  desire.  And  all  these 
things  which  must  fail  you  and  pass  away,  which 
you  have,  perchance,  already  gauged  and  found 


192  BUT  YET  A  WOMAN. 

wanting,  why  will  you  put  them  in  the  place  of 
heaven,  to  which  you  go  to  live  forever ;  in  the 
place  of  God,  whose  love  knows  no  variableness 
nor  shadow  of  turning?  It  is  not  I  who  under 
value  them;  it  is  you  who  overestimate  them. 
Measure  them  rightly,  and  I  shall  no  longer  be  to 
you  a  prophet  of  woe,  or  a  sorrowful  comforter. 
Love  them  without  sacrificing  yourself  to  them. 
Make  them  the  rivers  that  water  your  life,  and 
also  the  rivers  that  bear  you  to  the  infinite  sea  into 
which  they  shall  be  merged.  Then  shall  this  life 
cease  to  be  for  you  a  vale  of  tears  walled  about 
witli  tombs,  and  become  the  pathway  to  your  abid 
ing  country.  Its  beauties  shall  not  satiate,  if  you 
see  behind  them  the  world  of  spiritual  beauty. 
What  will  it  matter  to  you  that  its  fetters  chafe, 
that  the  soul  discovers  it  is  imprisoned,  when  that 
end,  in  which  every  beauty  of  flesh  and  color  is 
engulfed,  is  not  an  end  but  a  beginning  ?  Verily, 
verily,  I  say  unto  you,  whoso  loseth  his  life  for  my 
sake,  shall  find  it !  " 

"  For  my  sake,"  thought  Stephanie. 

And  Father  Le  Blanc,  who  had  not  seen  this 
listener,  —  who,  having  sown  the  seed,  had  left  it 
humbly  to  God,  —  was  thus  himself  permitted  to 
water  it. 

The  candles  were  lighted  in  the  parlor  when 
Stdphanie  returned.  She  extinguished  half  of 
them  and  sat  down  in  the  recess  over  the  garden. 
Presently  Lizette  entered. 


BUT  YET  A    WOMAN.  193 

Lizette  was  not  wanting  in  assurance  ;  still  she 
advanced  hesitatingly.  The  darkness  was  unusual 
and  made  her  timid ;  moreover,  madame  had  not 
called  her,  and  yet  it  was  time  for  her  dinner  toi 
lette. 

"  Pardon,  madame,"  she  said.  "  Madame  does 
not  dress  for  dinner?  " 

"  No,  I  dine  as  I  am.  Mademoiselle  Rene*e  dines 
with  me,  and  she  will  sleep  here  also.  Have  the 
room  next  to  mine  ready  for  her.  We  shall  start 
from  here  early  in  the  morning.  Is  everything 
ready  ?  " 

"  Yes,  madame.  Does  madame  require  me  this 
evening  ?  " 

"  No,  not  till  I  retire.  Do  you  wish  to  go 
out  ?  " 

"  Before  leaving  for  so  long,  —  I  have  a  visit  to 
make." 

"  Well,  make  your  visit ;  and,  as  you  go  out, 
tell  Jacques  that,  when  mademoiselle  comes,  I  shall 
be  here." 

kt  Merci,  madame." 

And  Lizette  that  night  told  her  lover,  with 
whom  she  went  to  the  Cirque,  that  madame,  who 
she  thought  was  recovering  her  gayety,  was  again 
as  she  used  to  be  at  Kief. 

"  This  time,  at  last,  she  has  a  lover,"  said  Li- 
zette's  companion. 

"  Idiot !  "  she  replied,  with  ineffable  scorn,  "  you 
think  she  is  no  better  than  myself  ?  " 

13 


194  BUT   YET  A    WOMAN. 

"  Aliens  done !  perhaps  she  is  not  a  woman/ 
was  the  incredulous  reply.  "  Elle  a  ses  nerfs 
alors." 

"  Her  nerves  are  stronger  than  yours,"  rejoined 
Lizette,  tartly ;  and  this  episode  nearly  spoiled  her 
evening.  Her  thoughts  reverted  again  and  again 
to  her  mistress,  whom  she  had  left  in  the  twilight 
of  the  great  salon,  and  she  thought,  "  I  am  glad 
Mademoiselle  Renee  is  coming.'' 

Stephanie  was  waiting  for  her.  All  the  light 
had  faded  out  of  the  sky.  The  window  had  be 
come  a  black  surface  in  which  she  saw  her  own 
outline  and  the  slender  flames  of  the  candles. 
Suddenly  another  form  appeared  in  this  mirror. 
She  turned  with  a  cry  of  pleasure.  But  it  was 
not  R6iee. 

It  was  M.  de  Marzac. 

Accustomed  to  admit  M.  de  Marzac  so  fre 
quently,  Jacques  had  not  even  followed  him  up 
the  stairs.  He  knew  madarae  was  in  the  salon 
waiting  for  Mademoiselle  Renee,  and  M.  de  Mar 
zac  glided  up  the  stairway  as  if  he  had  an  ap 
pointment.  In  reality,  the  latter  had  not  lingered 
lest  he  should  hear  Jacques  transmit  the  orders 
which  his  mistress  had  very  probably  given  him. 
As  lie  ascended  the  staircase  he  expected  to  hear 
the  formula,  "Madame  ne  re^'oit  pas,  monsieur;" 
but  Stephanie  had  not  thought  of  it.  The  reap 
pearance  of  M.  de  Marzac  for  a  tete-a-tete  was 
inconceivable,  and  he  had  dropped  out  of  her 


BUT  YET  A    WOMAN.  195 

thoughts.  When,  expecting  to  see  Re'ne'e,  she 
turned  to  find  him  standing  so  near  to  her,  he  was 
as  it  were  an  apparition. 

He  had  a  sentence  prepared,  but  the  cry  of 
pleasure  which  escaped  her  disconcerted  him.  For 
a  moment  he  appropriated  it  to  himself. 

"  It  seems  the  dead  come  to  life,  monsieur,"  she 
said,  coldly. 

"  It  is  said  so,  madame,  when  they  die  with  a 
fault  on  their  conscience." 

"  M.  de  Marzac,"  she  said,  looking  at  him  stead 
ily,  "  why  do  you  persist  in  playing  a  comedy  with 
me?" 

Her  words  were  like  ice.  If  they  swept  away 
the  hope  that  always  rose  in  his  heart  when  he 
was  near  her,  they  also  confirmed  him  in  his  sus 
picions,  and  the  tide  of  his  anger  rose  to  his  very 
throat,  It  was  indeed  a  comedy,  which,  persisted 
in,  would  become  a  farce.  But  M.  de  Marzac  was 
cool :  he  had  his  reserves,  and  the  savage  pleasure 
of  destruction  slaked  his  passion.  He  no  longer 
felt  impotent. 

"  Have  patience,  madame ;  the  comedy  is  over, 
We  will  now  have  a  little  tragedy." 

The  tone  of  his  voice  struck  her.  It  was  quite 
natural,  and  he  laughed  composedly. 

!« So  you  go  to  Spain,"  he  said,  seating  himself, 
quietly.  "  What  an  original  idea  !  Spain  is  such 
an  interesting  country.  It  lies  between  France 
and  Africa,  as  it  does  between  civilization  and 
barbarism." 


196  BUT  YET  A    WOMAN. 

Stephanie  was  self-possessed,  and  she  did  not 
yet  understand  him.  But  this  swift  change  of 
base  disturbed  her.  She  felt  a  vague  sense  of 
coming  peril. 

"  And  you  have  so  charming  a  companion," 
pursued  M.  de  Marzac,  playing  with  the  ivory 
paper-cutter  on  the  table.  "  Really,  I  congratu 
late  you." 

"  It  seems  we  are  still  in  the  last  act  of  the 
comedy,"  she  said,  with  an  effort  to  appear  calm, 
"  and  I  am  tired  of  it." 

"Do  you  think  so?"  he  replied,  with  a  smile 
fine  as  that  of  a  mask.  "  Shall  we  make  Made 
moiselle  Michel,  whom  you  are  waiting  for,  the 

judge? " 

"Whom  I  am  waiting  for!"  repeated  Stdpha- 
nie,  carried  away  by  surprise.  Then,  with  a 
quiver  of  indignation,  "  You  employ  spies,  mon 
sieur." 

"  Yes,  two,  madame ;  and  they  are  looking  at 
you.  You  do  not  comprehend  me,"  lie  said,  still 
smiling.  "You  are  too  impatient.  We  are  only 
in  the  first  act.  Your  plan  is  so  ingenious,  —  this 
little  journey  to  Spain!  There  is  nothing  like 
absence,  spiced  with  a  little  novelty,  to  wean  a 
young  girl  from  her  lover." 

"  M.  de  Marzac  !  " 

-What!  She  does  not  love  him?"  he  asked, 
in  a  tone  of  well-feigned  incredulity,  affecting  to 
misunderstand  her.  "You  do  not  believe,  me? 


BUT   YET   A    WOMAN.  197 

Well,  it  is  not  pleasant  to  admit  it--  I  do  not 
blame  you  —  that  she  should  love  this  maker  of 
pills,  the  son  of  a  music- teacher.  It  is  ridicu 
lous  ! " 

The  very  walls  seemed  to  reel  as  she  listened  to 
him. 

"  Come,"  said  M.  de  Marzac,  clapping  his 
hands  softly,  "  you  are  admirable  ;  in  the  first  act, 
too!  But  if  you  are  surprised  at  what  I  am  tell 
ing  you,"  he  pursued,  confidentially,  "  we  will  ask 
mademoiselle,  when  she  comes.  She  is  very  frank, 
and  very — innocent.  I  am  confident  she  will 
avow  it.  That  would  afford  an  excellent  opportu 
nity  to  furnish  mademoiselle  a  little  surprise  in 
her  turn,  also.  If,  for  example,  I  should  admit 
her  into  our  secret,  and  explain  to  her  this  excur 
sion  to  Spain,  which  has  for  its  object  to  make  her 
.forget  one  whom  another  will  remember." 

"  It  is  a  lie  !  "  cried  Stephanie,  white  as  death, 
springing  to  her  feet,  overborne  by  terror  and  in 
dignation. 

"  At  all  events,  it  is  a  lie  in  which  you  appear 
marvelously  interested.  But  I  lack  precision  ; 
let  us  be  more  definite.  Is  it,  then,  a  lie  that 
Madame  Milevski  loves  M.  Lande?  And  to  think 
that  you  call  this  a  comedy  !  A  comedy  of  er 
rors,  truly  !  One  which  would  doubtless  prove  as 
surprising  to  M.  Lande  as  to  Mademoiselle  Michel, 
if  I  should  perchance  change  my  mind,  and  ad 
mit  him  into  our  confidence." 


198  BUT  YET  A  WOMAN: 

"  You  would  not  dare  to,"  she  said.  The  attack 
was  so  sudden,  surprise  and  terror  benumbed  her. 

"  Pouf  !  Dead  men  have  no  fears,"  replied  M. 
de  Marzac,  tranquilly. 

He  rose  and  walked  the  length  of  the  room, 
stopping  before  the  mirror  to  adjust  his  cravat. 
He  was  quite  content  with  himself.  He  had  taken 
her  unawares,  and  was  now  sure  of  what  he  had 
only  suspected.  The  game  was  a  risky  one,  but 
it  had  succeeded  beyond  his  expectations. 

"  So  you  imagined  that,  having  rung  the  bell 
for  Jacques,  our  affair  was  well  settled.  Your 
r81e  was  a  very  pretty  one  —  to  insult  a  gentle 
man  while  you  rely  on  his  remaining  one  to  follow 
your  servant's  heels  meekly  out  of  the  door.  What 
a  pity  that  you  could  not  call  a  brother,  or  a  hus 
band,  —  or  even  a  lover,"  ho  added  with  a  sneer  ; 
u  some  on'3  whom  I  should  have  the  pleasure  to  • 
run  through  with  my  sword,  —  as  I  may  yet  do 
for  a  certain  doctor.  Think  how  many  resources 
I  have,"  he  said,  coming  back  to  where  she  stood. 

This  allusion  to  her  defenseless  position  was  a 
masterstroke.  It  brought  the  tears  to  her  eyes. 
He  saw  them  glisten,  and  for  an  instant  he  pitied 
her.  Without  a  doubt,  he  would  have  thrown 
himself  at  the  feet  of  this  woman  if  she  would 
have  permitted  him. 

Rudely  and  suddenly  shaken  as  she  had  been, 
she  began  to  collect  her  thoughts.  This  insult 
«;ave  her  strength. 


BUT  YET  A    WOMAN.  199 

"M.  de  Marzac,"  she  said,  slowly,  "you  are  a 
coward." 

"  We  are  a  pair  of  them,"  he  laughed.  "  But 
calm  yourself,  madame,  for  I,  at  least,  am  a  rea 
sonable  one.  It  is  not  necessary  that  I  should 
consult  the  physician  to-night,  or  even  make 
friends  with  Mademoiselle  Michel.  We  have 
plenty  of  time  before  us.  We  might  wait  until 

Mademoiselle  Re'ne'e  becomes  Madame  Lande, 

that  is,  if  you  will  permit  it.  To-night  you  fear 
the  denouement;  but  I  can  conceive  that  you  may 
in  time  welcome,  even  pray  for  it, — after  a  long 
suspense,  for  example.  You  will  make  your  ex 
cursion  to  Spain,  and  I  —  I  will  wait  here  in 
Paris.  It  is  not  I  who  am  impatient.  Having 
practised  patience  for  a  whole  year,  I  have  become 
an  adept." 

"  You  are  more  than  a  coward,"  she  said,  as  if 
she  did  not  hear  him,  "for  you  think  to  trade  on 
cowardice." 

"  On  yours,  or  mine,  madame  ?  Explain  your 
self.  Nothing  is  changed  since  yesterday,  and 
yesterday,  when  I  saw  you,  you  did  not  seem  to 
be  afraid.  Ah  !  to  be  sure,  at  that  time  we  were 
ignorant  that  we  were  discovered.  That  makes  a 
difference.  As  to  trading  on  anything,  what  have 
I  to  gain  ?  Absolutely  nothing.  Divest  yourself, 
I  beg  of  you,  of  all  thoughts  of  me.  I  have  no 
longer  any  interest,  except  that  of  the  spectator. 
But  observe  the  proprieties!  The  mise-en-scene 


200  BUT  YET  A    WOMAN. 

is  changed.  Scorn  became  you  very  well  the  otbet 
night ;  you  chose  a  good  weapon,  and  you  used  it 
admirably.  But  to-day  it  is  different.  Docs 
what  I  say  displease  you  ?  Very  likely  !  I  have 
had  the  misfortune  to  displease  you  once  already  ; 
but  I  was  appealing  then  to  a  heart  of  stone,  — 
to  day  I  address  one  of  flesh  and  blood.  That 
makes  a  difference  again,  —  whether  one  invokes 
a  love  that  does  not  exist,  or  one  that  does.  And 
therefore  it  is  that  I  say  scorn  does  not  become 
you  to-night.  Against  calumny  I  would  not  dis 
pute  your  right  to  it,  —  but  against  the  truth  '* 
and  M.  deMarzac  indulged  again  in  his  fine  smile. 

While  she  heard  every  word  of  this  reasoning 
which  was  the  very  perversion  of  reason,  Ste*pha- 
nie  could  think  of  Father  Le  Blanc,  who  so  short 
a  time  ago  had  been  seated  in  the  \ery  chair  be 
fore  her.  She  had  even  time  to  wonder  at  her 
self,  to  wonder  that,  as  she  looked  at  this  man,  at 
his  pale,  aristocratic  face  and  faultless  dress,  no 
detail  of  which  escaped  her,  her  mind  could  thus 
wander  back  to  St.  Eustaehe,  and  that  before  her 
eyes  should  appear  the  blue  and  white  checked 
apron  of  the  bourgeoise  who  sat  beside  her. 

"  You  have  nothing  to  say  ?  "  said  M.  de  Mar- 
zac.  "Parbleu!  and  yet  it  is  worth  the  trouble 
of  a  denial.  Let  us  recapitulate.  First,  a  young 
girl  and  her  lover,  indispensable  to  every  piece. 
Second,  a  woman  who  loves— the  latter.  The 
characters  are  few,  the  plot  is  simple,  but  ainus- 


BUT  YET  A    WOMAN.  201 

ing.  For  this  woman  has  lofty  ideas  !  She  in 
dulges  in  lectures  on  tho  morals  of  love.  One 
wonders  what  she  will  do.  Ah !  I  forget !  there 
is  also  the  rejected  lover  to  whom  she  delivers 
these  lectures,  and  whom  she  thought  herself  well 
rid  of.  As  to  the  denouement,  that  is  undecided, 
and  we  will  not  yet  hasten  it;  that  would  be  tc 
diminish  the  interest ;  one  can  only  conjecture. 
Love  may  prove  stronger  than  morals,  in  which 
case,  this  poor  lover,  who  profits  by  his  instruc 
tion,  interferes  in  the  name  of  society  and  virtue  ; 
or  this  woman  conquers  her  love  and  makes  a  sub 
lime  sacrifice,  —  there  is  again  this  poor  lover, 
who  looks  on  and  applauds.  In  any  event,  she 
suffers,  in  any  event  he  is  rewarded ;  her  suffer 
ings  avenge  him.  Whatever  she  does,  he  is  a  wit 
ness.  And  if  this  little  piece,  which  you  deign 
to  dignify  with  the  title  of  comedy,  moves  too 
slowly,  if  the  scenes  are  delayed,  he  reserves  the 
right  to  hasten  the  action,  and  to  ring  the  bell  for 
the  finale." 

M.  do  Marzac  had  not  prepared  any  definite 
plan,  and,  for  this  reason,  this  impromptu  scene 
did  him  the  more  credit.  Ho  had  no  idea  what 
he  should  do.  He  had  made  a  discovery  which  so 
burned  in  his  heart  that  he  could  not  wait  to  de 
liberate  ;  he  could  not  resist  trying  a  little,  d  lim- 
proviste,  the  edge  of  this  weapon  which  fate  had 
given  him.  He  had  dealt  his  blow  and  had  en 
joyed  its  effect ;  but  he  saw  that  it  was  time  to 


202  BUT  YET  A   WOMAN. 

go.  He  did  not  propose  to  repeat  his  former  mis 
take,  and  to  wait  again  for  Jacques  to  hand  him 
his  gloves.  Like  the  lion-tamer  when  the  per 
formance  is  over,  he  cast  an  uneasy  thought  in  the 
direction  of  the  door. 

He'rose  quickly,  made  a  sudden  movement  as  if 
he  would  approach  her,  then  turned  abruptly,  and 
before  she  could  have  prevented  him,  had  she  de 
sired  to,  was  gone. 


BUT  YET  A  WOMAN.  $08 


xin. 


Two  things  in  life  are  absolutely  certain,—- 
Death  and  Sorrow ;  and  these  two,  about  which 
there  is  nothing  contingent,  alone  possess  the 
power  to  surprise  us.  All  that  is  problematical 
we  are  ready  for,  and  accept  without  lifting  our 
eyebrows  ;  but  this  figure  of  Sorrow,  whose  shadow 
falls  athwart  our  path  a  few  days'  journey  ahead, 
and  Death,  who  waits  at  its  end  without  clamor, 
since  he  is  sure  of  us,  —  to  these  we  say,  "  It  can 
not  be  !  it  is  impossible  !  "  We  count  upon  the 
uncertain  ;  the  inevitable  surprises  us. 

After  the  echoes  of  M.  de  Marzac's  footsteps 
had  died  away,  after  the  great  door  below  was 
closed,  and  silence  had  settled  down  upon  the 
room  again,  it  all  seemed  a  dream  ;  and,  of  that 
afternoon,  only  the  voice  and  fnce  of  Father  Le 
Blanc  and  the  incense  of  St.  Eustache  were  the 
realities.  M.  de  Marzac  was  a  phantom,  which  in 
vanishing  had  carried  away  the  only  proofs  of  its 
brief  existence.  No  !  there  was  the  dull  monotone 
of  her  own  heart ;  there  were  his  words,  still  ring 
ing  in  her  ears,  and  there  was  that  from  which 
those  words  had  torn  away  the  veil.  Why  should 
fihe  feel  surprise?  M.  de  Marzac  had  not  created 


BUT  YET  A  WOMAN. 

this  love,  which  till  now  had  been  a  delicious 
dream,  like  the  mother's  hope  ere  she  feels  the 
strong,  new  life  at  the  very  core  of  her  own. 

M.  de  Marzac  had  but  brought  the  vague  image 
into  the  focus.  He  was  not  a  friend  to  paint  a 
fancy  portrait  and  deal  in  flesh  tints,  but  the 
enemy  who  goes  deeper  and  hits  upon  the  joints 
of  the  skeleton  that  is  within.  Before  this  thought 
her  first  indignation  and  outraged  pride  lapsed 
into  a  stupor,  in  the  thick  of  which,  nevertheless, 
her  mind  thought  on,  as  her  heart  beat  on,  like  a 
galley-slave  in  chains. 

Suddenly  Renee,  whom  she  had  forgotten,  came ; 
the  freshness  of  an  autumn  evening  in  her  hair, 
the  light  of  expectation  in  the  depths  of  her  gray 
eyes,  and  the  matin  song  of  happiness  in  her  heart. 
Ah,  si  jeunesse  savait !  says  the  poet. 

Stdphariic  was  not  yet  mistress  of  herself,  and 
the  less  so  because  she  knew  it.  She  was  perpet 
ually  rousing  herself  from  her  thoughts,  to  see 
Rcnce  and  fall  back  again.  At  dinner  she  alter 
nated  between  silence  and  a  forced  gayety.  Her 
eyes  had  the  dry  brilliancy  of  anxiety. 

Rene*e,  who  had  a  good  appetite  and  was  full  of 
anticipation,  chatted  away  innocently.  She  had 
never  before  possessed  a  friend  like  Stephanie ;  ol 
her  own  sex,  one  for  whom  she  felt  just  that  mod 
icum  of  awe  which  dignifies  love  without  chilling 
it ;  and  she  reveled  in  the  possession.  Somehow, 
she  found  it  very  easy  to  talk  to  her.  How  sur 


BUT  YET  A   WOMAN.  205 

prised  M.  Michel  would  have  been  to  hear  her  I 
She  asked  a  hundred  questions  about  their  jour 
ney,  for  which  Stephanie  thanked  her.  Twenty 
times  the  latter  glanced  at  her  furtively,  unper- 
eeived.  How  unconsciously  pretty  she  was  !  She 
gave  no  support  to  the  satirist  who  said,  "  II  faut 
souffrir  pour  etre  belle."  There  were  no  mys 
teries  in  her  toilette  which  were  not  innocent,  for 
Nature  was  her  maid.  She  had  fairly  startled 
the  solemn  Jacques  that  evening,  though  lie  had 
been  her  usher  times  enough  before.  As  she 
looked  at  her,  Stephanie  felt  to  a  certain  degree 
responsible  both  for  her  beauty  and  her  happi 
ness.  She  noticed  that  some  of  her  suggestions, 
made  during  the  week's  preparations,  in  the  mat 
ter  of  this  very  travelling  dress  which  she  wore, 
for  example,  had  been  followed.  She  had  vetoed 
some  ideas  of  the  modiste,  who  can  more  easily 
spoil  a  good  subject  than  remedy  the  defects  of  a 
poor  one,  though  the  latter  is  her  trade.  In  more 
senses  than  one,  she  had  begun  the  task  of  bring 
ing  Renee  out.  Since  that  conversation  at  Beau- 
vais,  Renee  had  leaned  upon  her  with  a  somewhat 
shy  but  happy  confidence  which  touched  her  ;  and 
the  mere  fact  that  she  was  about  to  exchange  the 
quiet  and  solitary  life  of  the  Rue  du  Bac  for  ono 
so  new  and  strange  as  that  into  which  the  jour 
ney  to  Spain  ushered  her,  deepened  this  relation 
of  wardship  which  had  insensibly  grown  up  be 
tween  them.  It  was  manifest  in  ReneVs  manner, 


206  BUT  YET   A    WOMAN. 

in  the  questions  which  she  asked,  and  the  expec 
tant  curiosity  of  inexperience  which  they  revealed. 
From  the  moment  she  entered  the  room,  she  had 
been  unconsciously  exerting  on  Stephanie  that  im 
mense  influence  which  lies  in  the  faith  of  the  child 
who,  with  his  hand  in  his  father's,  laughs  in  the 
face  of  danger. 

And  this  was  why,  after  dinner,  Stephanie,  with 
a  sudden  impulsiveness,  went  up  behind  ReneVs 
chair,  and  with  her  arms  about  her  neck,  said,  — 

"  Do  you  promise  to  obey  me,  little  daughter, 
in  everything,  if  I  take  you  with  me  ?  " 

And  Re  ne'e,  who  could  not  see  her  face,  replied, 
in  mock  gravity  :  — 

"  Absolument !  ma  petite  mere." 

"  Well,  then,  if  you  mean  it,  since  we  are  both 
tired  to-night, —  or,  rather,  since  we  must  make 
an  early  start,  —  go  up  to  my  room,  take  off  your 
dress,  —  Lizette  is  out,  but  you  will  find  my  dress 
ing-gown  and  a  fire.  Sit  down  before  it,  take  a 
book,  and  wait  for  me.  I  have  some  affairs  to 
arrange,  and  will  join  you  in  a  half  hour.  Have 
you  all  your  instructions  fast?  " 

It  seemed  to  Stephanie  that  she  must  have  this 
half  hour's  breathing  time  ;  that  before  going  up 
stairs  with  Re'ne'e,  some  resolution  should  take 
shape  out  of  the  chaos  into  which  M.  de  Marzac's 
sudden  threat  had  thrown  her.  She  felt  that  need 
of  putting  her  hand  on  the  lever  of  events,  and 
arresting  their  progress  till  she  had  looked  them 


BUT  YET  A    WOMAN.  207 

and  herself  in  the  face.  'Making  up  one's  mind,' 
even  if  it  can  only  be  to  meet  what  comes  cour 
ageously,  is  the  secret  of  4  taking  heart.' 

What  would  she  not  have  given  for  a  friend  .' 
Not  for  sympathy,  not  for  words,  not  for  comfort 
ing  assurances  ;  not  to  sit  down  with  her  in  sack 
cloth  like  those  of  Job ;  but  one  of  flesh  and  blood, 
who  should  rise  up  and  smite  the  Sabeans,  even 
as  they  had  smitten,  with  the  sword  of  a  righteous 
indignation.  Father  Le  Blanc's  voice  still  lin 
gered  in  her  ears,  but  it  sounded  afar  off,  as  in  a 
dream,  and  stood  her  in  no  help.  There  are  times 
when  we  seem  to  have  more  need  of  ourselves 
than  of  God  ;  when  life  is  too  real  and  too  short 
for  the  measuring  rod  of  eternity  ;  when  the  soul 
scorns  a  far-away  retribution  equally  with  re 
venge;  and  will  not  even  own  that  Justice,  hav 
ing  permitted  injustice,  can  restore  equilibrium 
by  rebalancing  her  scales.  What  coin  is  there  in 
the  mint  that  shall  pay  back  the  debt  of  a  great 
wrong !  She  had  gotten  so  near  to  the  brutal 
facts,  that  the  language  of  the  spiritual  world  was 
a  pure  mysticism.  Sorrow  is  often  misquoted. 
It  is  only  one  step  in  a  long  journey,  one  stage 
in  a  long  growth.  It  is  the  furnace  from  which 
the  steel  emerges  hard ;  another  process  softens  it. 
Many  a  brave  soul  finds  itself  first,  God  after 
wards. 

She  sat  down  on  the  lotf  causeuse  in  the  win 
dow  ;  on  her  hot  brow  the  cool  pane  against  which 


208  BUT  YET  A    WOMAN. 

it  pressed  was  like  ice.    She  tried   to  think ;   but 
her  mind,  so  prompt,  so  energetic,  seemed  para 
lyzed.     Like  the  deer  which,  dozing  in  the  shade 
of  the  wood,  hears  suddenly  the  bay  of  hounds, 
and  does  not  know  whither  to  turn,  but  only  that 
it  must  flee,  she  felt  at  once  a  feverish  impatience 
for  action   and   the  indecision  of   sudden    terror  : 
terror,  not  of  M.  de  Marzac,  but   of  those  mighty 
energies  of  her  own  heart  which,  so  long  crushed, 
had  been  ripening  silently,  till  she  felt  their  power 
as  that  of   a   clutched   hand   on    het    conscience. 
How  could  she  shut  the  door  against  herself !    Yet 
that  door  must  be  shut,  and  soon.     Amid  the  al 
ternate  pleadings  and  commands  of  her  heart,  she 
heard  the  voice  of  this  conscience,  saying  to  her, 
"  Soon  !    soon  !    soon  !  "     All    the   present    was  a 
whirl  of  conflict  which  blinded  her  eyes  and   hid 
the  future  ;  but  the  past  was  brilliant  with  a  su 
pernatural  light.     It  defiled  before  her  with  all  its 
half-forgotten  scenes  like  the  platoons  of  an  army 
which  emerge  from  the  darkness  of  some  obscure 
street    to   pass  in  review  before  its   chief    in  the 
blaze  of  a  lighted  square,  and  vanish  again  into 
obscurity.    She  saw  again  those  sun-kissed  heights 
of   dream   on   which    her  child's  eyes   had  gazed. 
How  bright  they  were  then!     What  hopes  bios 
som  there  where  the  sun  shines  forever  and   ca 
pacities  bear  their  fruit !     Something  of  the  old 
splendor   yet   lingered   about  those  peaks  which 
her  young  imagination  had  piled  to  the  very  gates 


BUT  YET  A    WOMAN.  209 

of  heaven,  glimpses  of  which  had  grown  so  rare 
to  her  from  the  lonely  path  which  a  miscarried 
life  follows  in  the  sombre  forests.  As  she  sat 
lost  in  that  past,  the  bells  of  St.  Severin  struck 
the  hour.  They  brought  back  to  her  tho  prayers 
of  her  mother,  the  sweet  faces  of  the  Convent  of 
Notre  Dame,  and  the  words  of  Father  Le  Blanc ; 
and,  for  an  instant,  she  longed  to  throw  herself 
upon  her  knees.  But  her  pride  revolted. 

She  rose  from  her  seat  and  went  to  the  mirror 
above  the  fireplace.  The  candles  burned  brightly 
upon  the  mantel,  and  she  looked  at  the  face  they 
revealed  in  the  glass  as  though  it  were  that  of 
another  person  which  she  could  analyze  curiously. 
She  saw  its  beauty  ;  not  a  line  that  an  artist  would 
have  seen  was  unnoticed  :  she  saw  its  trouble  and 
anxiety  ;  not  a  sign  that  a  friend  would  have  de 
tected  escaped  her ;  and,  as  she  looked,  she  felt 
the  warm  flood  of  tears  rising  to  her  eyes.  If  she 
had  buried  her  head  in  her  hands,  they  would 
have  vanquished  her.  But  the  sight  of  this  weak 
ness  turned  pity  into  a  scorn  that  froze  them  at 
their  very  sources,  and  fired  the  eyes  into  which 
she  gazed  with  a  light  of  defiance.  There  was 
almost  a  sneer  in  the  smile  of  self-contempt  which 
swept  her  face  as  she  turned  away,  and  when  she 
opened  the  door  of  her  room  where  Rcnce  waited 
her,  it  had  settled  into  the  cold  expression  of  self- 
mastery  and  resolute  determination. 

14 


210  BUT   YET  A   WOMAN. 

Patience,  good  father !  this  strength  is  the  sign 
of  the  steel.     Have  no  fear  for  the  temper  ! 

Wrapped  in  blue  cashmere,  her  head  thrown 
back  on  the  cushion  of  the  chair  and  her  book 
on  the  floor,  Rene'e  had  fallen  asleep.  Stephanie 
stood  for  a  moment  silently  in  the  open  door. 
This  picture  of  loveliness  and  happiness  made 
her  both  cold  and  hot,  hard  and  pitiful.  Under 
the  arm  that  guards  there  must  always  be  that 
which  is  guarded  ;  beside  the  watcher  who  waits, 
the  sleeper  who  dreams.  What!  could  ye  not 
watch  with  me  one  hour ! 

"  How  unjust  I  am,"  she  said  to  herself,  think 
ing  of  the  resolute  gray  eyes  under  the  fallen  lids. 
"  She  does  not  dream  of  it." 

Though  she  closed  the  door  noiselessly,  Re*ne*e 

awoke. 

"  What,  are  you  here!"  she  said,  rousing  her. 
self.  u  When  did  you  come  ?  How  long  have  I 
been  asleep  ?  " 

"  Just  now,"  said  Stephanie,  sitting  down  be 
side  her. 

"  A  fire  always  makes  one  dozy,"  Rene'e  said, 

apologetically. 

"  Or  a  book,  sometimes,"  suggested  Stephanie, 
looking  at  the  one  on  the  floor. 

"  No,  I  was  reading  something  which  interested 
me  intensely,"  replied  Rdn<3e,  stooping  to  pick  up 
the  book.  "  I  did  not  fall  asleep  reading  it,  but 
to  thinking  of  it  afterwards." 


BUT  YET  A    WOMAN.  211 

"What  was  it  about?"  asked  Stephanie,  hold 
ing  out  her  hand  for  the  book.  "  Pliny  !  and 
Latin  !  Where  did  you  get  it,  pray  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  found  it  here  on  the  table,  with  the 
leaf  turned  down." 

"  With  the  leaf  turned  down?" 

"  Yes.  Were  you  not  reading  it  ?  —  this  page 
—  I  mean  the  letter  about  Arria  ?  " 

"No,  my  little  blue-stocking;  I  cannot  read 
Latin,"  looking  at  the  book  curiously.  It  was 
small  and  thin  ;  well-worn,  but  it  had  no  name 
on  the  fly-leaf  to  tell  its  owner. 

"  Read  me  the  story  which  interested  you.  I 
am  going  to  take  down  my  hair,  but  I  shall  hear 
you." 

"I  will  tell  it  to  you,"  R£nee  said.  "Arria 
was  the  wife  of  the  Consul  Paetus,  who  took  sides 
with  —  I  have  forgotten  the  name  —  but  he  was 
defeated  and  made  prisoner,  and  sent  to  Rome. 
Arria  went  with  him  "  — 

"  With  whom?" 

"  With  her  husband,  whom  the  Emperor  Clau 
dius  condemned  to  die  —  by  his  own  hand.  But 
Foetus  had  not  the  courage  to  kill  himself;  till 
one  day,  to  give  him  courage,  Arria  snatched  the 
poniard  he  wore  from  his  side,  and  plunged  it  in 
her  own  breast.  And  then,  O  Stephanie,  think 
of  it !  — drawing  it  out,  she  gave  it  to  him,  saying, 
'  It  does  not  hurt,  Pastus.'  I  see  the  very  smile 
with  which  she  said  it." 


212  BUT  YET  A    WOMAN. 

Stephanie,  taking  out  the  pins  from  her  hair, 
kept  her  face  turned  away. 

"  I  do  not  believe  there  are  such  women  to 
day,"  said  Re-ne'e. 

"  Could  you  not  do  it  ?  "  asked  Stephanie,  after 
a  pause. 

"  Only  to  read  of  it  makes  rne  think  I  could. 
It  would  inspire  a  coward,  as  it  did.  But  with 
out  the  example —  I  don't  know.  It  is  so  much 
easier  to  follow  an  example  than  to  set  one.  I 
should  have  tried  to  save  him." 

"  But  suppose  that  were  impossible." 

*'  How  can  you  ask  me,  Stephanie !  I  should 
not  like  to  have  been  Paetus,"  she  added,  thought 
fully.  "  No  one  has  a  right  to  such  a  sacrifice." 

"  Perhaps  you  would  not  be  consulted." 

"  After  all,"  said  Renee,  breaking  an  interval 
of  silence,  "  how  many  heroic  deeds  are  done  that 
we  never  know  of,  even  to-day,  —  and  greater 
ones  than  Arria's." 

"  What  ones  ?  " 

"  Those  that  are  inspired  by  duty,  instead  of 
affection.  For  how  Arria  must  have  loved  Pse- 
tus  !  It  was  her  love  which  made  it  easy.  When 
I  think  of  that,  her  death  does  not  seem  a  sacri 
fice,  but  a  consummation.  I  was  thinking  of  it 
when  I  fell  asleep.  If  you  read  the  whole  story, 
Stephanie,  how  she  followed  him  to  Rome,  sub 
mitting  to  hardships  and  degradation  to  be  near 
him,  and  remember  how  she  loved  him,  she  does 


BUT  YET  A   WOMAN.  21S 

not  surprise  you  when  she  says,  *  It  does  not  hurt, 
Psetus ; '  her  death  is  like  the  crown  on  the  head 
of  a  great  king  —  it  dazzles  you,  bu  t  you  expect 
to  see  it  there." 

"  You  will  not  always  find  what  you  look  for, 
even  in  kings." 

"I  should  in  Arria,  because  she  loved.  She  was 
born  to  do  this  thing.  Besides,  she  had  no  motive 
to  live ;  her  husband's  doom  was  her  own.  She 
had  the  motive  to  die ;  and  when  she  struck  the 
blow,  she  lived  most  and  best,  and  knew  it.  Be 
fore  you  came  up-stairs,  I  was  wondering  whether 
she  thought  of  it  beforehand,  whether  she  had  to 
make  up  her  mind  to  it.  I  do  not  believe  she 
did.  It  was  a  burst  of  love,  not  of  courage.  I  do 
not  want  to  think  the  less  of  her,  but  would  it  not 
have  been  harder  for  her  to  see  Paetus  die  —  and 
live  —  than  to  die  with  him  ?  Do  you  understand 
me,  Stephanie  ?  " 

44  Yes,  I  understand  you." 

"  Arria  did  not  have  to  endure.  She  reached 
the  mark  with  one  act ;  all  her  heroism  was  con 
centrated  in  a  single  moment  of  time.  That  make? 
it  more  brilliant,  perhaps  "  — 

"  More  brilliant  than  what  ?" 

"  Than  that  lonely  courage  which  has  to  en 
dure,"  said  Renee,  sitting  up  and  speaking  very 
earnestly,  "that  cannot  reach  the  mark  with  one 
burst  only,  but  has  to  keep  steadily  there;  that 
does  not  give  a  life  which  has  become  worthless, 


214  BUT  YET  A    WOMAN. 

but  one  which  is  precious.  I  am  sure  I  could  do 
greater  things  out  of  my  love  for  you,  Stephanie, 
than  out  of  my  duty  to  you.  Love  earns  its  re 
ward  so  quickly,  —  it  is  its  own  reward.  But 
that  of  duty,  —  sometimes  only  faitli  can  see  any 
reward  at  all.  Don't  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  That  was  what  I  meant  by  greater  deeds  than 
Arria's.  Her  love  inspired  her  and  satisfied  her 
at  the  same  time ;  and  she  had  Pawns'  knowledge 
of  it  besides.  But  is  there  not  heroism  which 
must  be  lonely,  —  that  is  fit  for  an  example,  but, 
because  unknown,  can  never  be  one,  —  would,  per 
haps,  cease  to  be  such,  if  known?  One  does  not 
think  of  Arria's  life  as  cut  short,  like  a  broken 
column ;  her  death  was  the  capital  which  made 
it  perfect  and  complete.  But  there  must  be  lives 
which  love  and  duty  deform  instead  of  crown,  — 
destroy  all  their  happiness,  I  mean.  Don't  you 
know  Arria  was  happy  in  dying?  I  think  it  was 
the  happiest  moment  in  her  life.  But  oh,  Std- 
phanie  !  "  and  in  her  earnestness  Renee  came  over 
to  the  dressing-table  and  sat  down  beside  her, 
"  think  of  those  lives  whose  whole  mission  is  to 
hide,  and  yield  their  place ;  to  surrender  not  mere 
living,  but  all  life's  opportunities,  —  and  yet  live 
on  when  rightful  happiness  is  gone,  while  the  ca 
pacity  for  it  remains.  There  must  be  such  lives, 
which  cannot  achieve  all  by  ending  all,  as  Arria 
did ;  which  have  no  choice  but  to  endure.  For 


BUT  YET  A    WOMAN.  215 

these,   Arria's   poniard    would    be  cowardice,    or 
flight." 

She  sought  Stdphanie's  face  as  she  spoke,  but 
the  hand,  unfastening  the  coils  of  hair,  hid  it. 

"  You  discriminate  like  a  professor  giving  a  les 
son,"  said  Stephanie,  with  that  rashness  which 
had  sometimes  disconcerted  M.  de  Marzac. 

"  You  have  not  answered  me  at  all,"  replied 
Hence.  Her  enthusiasm  was  a  little  dampened  by 
Stephanie's  manner.  "But  you  agree  with  me;  I 
know  you  do." 

"  I  admit  that,  though  a  little  pitcher,  you  are 
running  over." 

Renee  laughed,  and  went  back  to  her  chair,  put 
ting  out  her  feet  to  the  warmth  of  the  coals. 

"  I  have  ever  so  many  things  I  want  to  talk 
over  with  you.  I  have  been  '  stopping  to  think ' 
ever  since  I  can  remember.  Where  shall  we  be 
at  this  time  to-morrow  night,  Stephanie  ?  " 

"  At  Lyons/' 

"  And  the  next  night  ?  " 

"  On  the  Mediterranean." 

That  word  plunged  her  in  a  revery  from  which 
she  did  not  wake  till  Lizette  came  to  show  her  to 
her  room,  unfasten  her  traveling-bag,  —  for  the 
heavy  luggage  was  already  at  the  station,  —  and 
make  ready  her  chamber  for  the  night. 

"  You  may  goto  madame  ;  I  do  not  need  you," 
she  said  to  Lizette,  after  the  latter  had  completed 
these  preparations. 


21b  BUT  YET  A   WOMAN. 

"  Very  well,  mademoiselle.  When  you  ire 
ready  I  will  come  in  and  put  out  the  candles,  ' 

Presently  Renee  appeared  at  the  door  between 
the  two  chambers.  , 

"  Stephanie,  my  prayer-book  is  in  my  trunk. 
May  I  have  yours  to-night  ?  " 

"  Here  itjs,  mademoiselle,"  said  Lizette,  adroitly 
taking  her  own  from  her  pocket. 

Lizette  ought  to  have  known  better ;  but  she 
was  quick-witted,  and  in  the  emergency — for  she 
knew  well  enough  that  her  mistress  had  none  — 
her  instincts  naturally  went  to  the  front. 

"  Who  taught  you  to  answer  for  your  mistress, 
mademoiselle?"  said  Stephanie,  when  Rende  had 
closed  the  door. 

"  Madame,"  stammered  Lizette.  Older  than 
Stephanie  by  ten  years,  she  nevertheless  stood  in 
awe  of  her. 

Stephanie  laughed  impatiently. 

"  You  are  too  zealous.  There  are  worse  faults, 
but  it  will  be  worth  while  to  conquer  this  one." 

Lizette  took  up  her  brush  and  resumed  her 
work  over  her  mistress'  hair,  nervously. 

44  Who  left  the  book  on  my  table,  Lizette  ?  " 

"  Madame,"  said  Lizette,  expecting  a  second 
reproof,  "I"  — 

"  Well,  what  is  the  matter  ?  It  was  Father 
Le  Blanc,  was  it  not  ?  " 

"  Yes,  madame,  he  told  me  to  place  it  there." 

"When?" 


BUT   YET  A  WOMAN.  217 

"  This  evening,  as  I  was  going  out." 

"  Well,  you  did  rightly.  What  is  the  mat 
ter?" 

"  Ah  !  Madame,  you  startled  me.  You  asked 
me  so  suddenly." 

"  Why  should  I  startle  you  ?  He  did  not  for 
bid  you  to  say  that  it  was  he,  I  presume." 

'•  No,  madame.  But  when  I  asked  if  I  should 
say  who  sent  it,  he  said,  4  If  she  does  not  know, 
there  is  no  need  to  tell  her.'  ' 

"  And  that  perplexed  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  madame  ;  I  confess  it." 

"  No  wonder,"  said  Stephanie,  tranquilly. 

And  Lizette,  though  she  took  the  first  occasion 
to  scrutinize  this  mysterious  book,  delivered  a 
message  which  she  does  not  to  this  day  under 
stand. 


218  BUT  YET  A  WOMAN. 


XIV. 

EIGHT  o'clock  of  the  next  morning  found  out 
travelers  comfortably  ensconced  by  themselves  in 
a  compartment  of  the  Marseilles  express. 

The  shrill  "En  voiture,  messieurs!"  of  the 
guards,  the  shutting  of  doors,  the  first  Titan 
breathings  of  the  locomotive  as  the  train  drew 
slowly  out  of  the  station,  had  drowned  the  voice 
of  M.  Michel.  There  was  only  to  be  seen  his  be 
nevolent  face  and  the  glitter  of  his  spectacles,  a 
last  wave  of  the  hand,  somewhat  disconsolate,  and 
the  platform  on  which  he  stood  slid  away  with 
all  its  bustle  like  a  river. 

M.  Michel  had  provided  Re'ne'e  with  a  guide 
book,  between  which  and  the  two  windows  she 
was  in  perpetual  trouble.  Like  an  ill-matched 
pair  of  horses,  the  chateau  out  of  the  window  and 
its  description  in  the  book  were  never  together. 

"  Give  it  to  Lizette,  and  let  her  read  aloud," 
suggested  Stephanie,  as  a  compromise. 

So  Lizette  read  volubly,  undaunted  by  statistics, 
omitting  not  a  line,  beginning  with  the  Lunatic 
Asylum  and  the  Forts  of  Charenton,  much  con- 
cerned  over  the  names  of  certain  worthies  unknown 
to  her,  —  Monaldeschi,  Queen  Christina,  Dukes  of 


BUT  YET  A  WOMAN.  219 

Burgundy,  and  Csesar's  Commentaries,  —  noting 
with  gravity  that  the  viaduct  of  Avon,  passed 
some  time  before,  was  thirty-three  feet  wide,  and 
that  at  Fontainbleau  the  Hdtel  de  France  was 
clean,  comfortable,  and  moderate. 

Renee  gave  Stephanie  an  amused  glance,  where 
upon  Lizette  was  released  from  her  task,  not  a 
little  proud  of  her  success  as  a  reader,  and  quite 
satisfied  with  having  so  well  gotten  over  the  pit 
falls  of  pronunciation. 

"  It  is  useless,"  Renee  whispered,  despairingly. 
"  I  shall  keep  the  left  side  till  we  come  back,  and 
sit  down  with  you  at  your  window,  and  enjoy  my 
self  in  my  own  fashion." 

Down  the  yellow  Seine  crept  the  barges ;  the 
walls  and  roofs  of  Thomery,  covered  with  vines, 
swept  past  the  window  ;  a  peasant,  standing  in 
the  road  with  a  basket  of  grapes  packed  in  heather, 
caught  IleneVs  eye  for  an  instant ;  village  and 
town  succeeded  each  other  swiftly;  till,  at  last, 
the  plain  of  Dijon  unrolled  like  a  mantle,  fringed 
with  the  faint  blue  outlines  of  fche  Jura,  —  the 
city,  with  its  frowning  palace  and  churches,  lying, 
a  strong  black  shadow,  in  the  foreground. 

Stephanie  could  but  tease  Renee  a  little  at  the 
dinner-table  of  the  Dijon  station,  where,  as  Rende 
said,  nothing  was  lacking  but  time.  Neither 
Chambertin  nor  Romance  were  needed  to  quicken 
her  appetite. 

"  Between  hunger  and  the  desire  to  appear  at 


220  BUT  YET  A  WOMAN. 

least  decently,"  she  whispered  to  Stephanie,  as 
they  were  hurried  back  to  their  carriage,  "  1  am 
half  starved." 

Out  of  the  dark  station,  through  the  straggling 
skirts  of  the  town,  they  rushed  on,  among  those 
rich  terraces  of  the  Cote  d'Or,  long  coveted  by 
France  of  the  Dukes  of  Burgundy,  where  the 
vines  left  scarce  a  glimpse  of  the  yellow-red  soil ; 
the  clustering  villages,  thickly  sown  as  the  almond 
trees  that  dot  its  fields,  fled  past  the  window  ;  the 
tops  of  the  tall  chimneys  of  the  iron  works  of  Creu- 
zot  blazed  with  blue  and  red  fires  in  the  face  of 
the  sun  ;  Macon  came  and  vanished  ;  sunset  touched 
the  hills  of  Charolois  and  reddened  the  white 
chateaux  of  the  Sa6ne,  which  narrowed  to  a  rib 
bon's  width  under  the  wooded  heights  of  the  Mont 
d'Or  ;  then,  with  a  shriek,  the  train  plunged  into 
the  tunnel  of  Notre  Dame,  that  announces  the 
approach  to  Lyons. 

Stephanie  had  planned  to  break  the  long  ride 
at  Lyons,  passing  the  night  there,  and  taking  the 
train  on  the  followirg  morning,  so  as  to  reach 
Marseilles  in  season  to  embark  on  the  Spanish 
steamer  sailing  in  the  late  afternoon.  In  this 
way,  also,  the  scenery  along  their  route  was  all 
passed  in  the  daytime,  which  has  both  its  advan 
tages  and  its  drawbacks.  It  at  once  surfeits  and 
tantalizes.  Against  the  former,  to  close  one's 
eyes  is  but  a  poor  relief  ;  while  against  the  latter 
there  is  none  whatever.  The  rigid  rails  which 


BUT   YET  A    WOMAN.  221 

permit  no  wandering,  the  iron  steed  which  brooks 
no  dallying,  how  sorely  would  they  have  tried  the 
spirit  of  Montaigne,  who  said,  "If  the  way  is  bad 
on  my  right  band,  I  turn  on  my  left ;  if  I  find 
myself  unfit  to  ride,  I  stay  where  I  am  ;  have  1 
left  anything  behind  me  unseen,  I  go  back  to  see 
it;  'tis  still  my  way;  I  trace  no  certain  line, 
either  straight  or  crooked." 

Still,  Rene'e  stored  away  many  a  fresh  and 
pleasant  picture  ;  of  the  turbulent  Rhone,  braid 
ing  its  yellow  strand  of  waters  from  the  torrents 
of  Drome  and  Ardeche,  to  unweave  it  again 
among  the  gravel  beds  and  salt  lagoons  of  Ca- 
margue  ;  now  broad  as  a  sash  on  the  wide  plains 
lined  with  avenues  of  poplar  and  willow,  now 
narrowed  and  pushed  aside  by  naked  cliffs,  girdled 
with  hamlets  all  but  lost  in  the  shade  of  the  mul 
berry,  and  crowned  by  roofless  gables  and  towers  ; 
of  the  valley  of  the  Isere,  cradled  among  the  Alps 
of  Dauphine,  which,  in  the  distance,  buttress  the 
white  peak  of  Mont  Blanc  ;  of  Avignon's  spires 
and  Papal  towers;  and  last,  but  not  least^of  that 
first  evening  on  the  Mediterranean,  in  the  twi 
light  an  indigo  sea,  when,  walking  the  deck  of  the 
steamer  with  Stephanie,  she  breathed  for  the  first 
time  that  indescribable  freshness  of  the  night  pe 
culiar  to  those  countries  which  border  this  sea, 
and  watched  under  the  stars  the  receding  lights  on 
the  mole  and  quays  of  Marseilles. 


222  BUT  YET  A   WOMAN. 


XV. 

HUGGING  the  sides  of  the  buildings  in  the  short 

O 

shadows  of  ten  o'clock,  Antonio,  el  Moro,  guide 
and  courier  de  place,  might  have  been  seen  on  his 
way  to  the  H6tel  of  the  Alameda,  to  meet  the 
two  French  ladies  to  whom  he  was  engaged.  In 
any  other  land  than  Spain  this  curious  figure 
would  have  attracted  attention.  Beardless,  yet 
always  unshaven,  gaurrt,  but  with  an  air  of  rug- 
gedness,  he  pursued  his  way  leisurely,  with  that 
shiftless  gait  of  the  Spaniard,  who  has  always  the 
day  before  him,  and  religiously  employs  it  in  do 
ing  nothing.  His  garments  were  a  peculiar  mix 
ture  of  Barbary  and  Spain,  loose,  awkward,  and 
ill-fitting,  and  had  the  appearance  of  being  con 
scious  that  they  were  despised  by  their  owner,  and 
tolerated  only  from  necessity.  No  one  knew 
whether  the  stoop  of  his  shoulders  was  due  to  age 
or  weariness,  any  more  than  whether  this  alien  to 
the  brotherhood  of  guides  was  in  reality  a  Moor, 
as  he  was  called,  or  a  Spaniard  :  solemn,  not  to 
say  cadaverous,  taciturn,  and  dignified,  he  little 
resembled  the  type  of  his  genus,  so  generally  full 
of  yarns,  ditties,  loquacity,  and  lies. 

Sitting  in  the  shade,  on  the  wooden  bench  out- 


BUT   YET  A   WOMAN.  223 

side  the  door  of  the  hotel,  mine  host  of  the  Ala- 
meda  saluted  him  effusively,  receiving  a  nod  of 
recognition  in  return.  Although  making  his 
headquarters  in  Granada,  A'ntonio  was  known  to 
every  man,  woman,  and  child  in  Andalusia.  He 
took  a  seat  gravely  by  the  innkeeper's  side,  and 
rolled  the  cigarette  offered  him  between  a  thumb 
and  finger  yellow  as  parchment. 

"  You  come  from  Granada  ? "  inquired  mine 
host. 

"  Last  night,"  replied  Antonio,  with  a  puff  of 
smoke  from  his  nostrils  resembling  the  breath  of 
a  laboring  horse  on  a  cold  day,  —  an  act  of  energy 
forming  a  solitary  exception  to  the  usual  air  of 
tranquillity  and  repose. 

"  You  go  back  again  soon?  " 

"  That  depends." 

"  Ah,  dolt  that  I  am  !  you  have  come  for  the 
two  French  ladies  who  arrived  in  the  steamer  of 
yesterday." 

If  silence  gives  assent,  Antonio's  answer  was 
affirmative. 

"Jesus!  Would  they  were  to  remain  with 
me!  I  should  have  all  the  gallants  of  Malaga  for 
company." 

Antonio  made  a  grimace;  possibly  at  the 
thought  of  having  them  all  at  his  heels. 

"  Which  way  do  you  go  ?    Granada,  I  suppose." 

"  God  knows,"  was  the  reply,  and  it  would  have 
been  difficult  to  tell  whether  this  proverbial  expres- 


224  BUT  YET  A    WOMAN. 

sion  betokened  in  his  case  indifference  or  Christian 
resignation. 

From  the  open  balcony  directly  above  him  Ro*- 
ne*e  was  looking  out  through  the  narrow  vista  at 
the  end  of  the  Alameda,  on  the  sea,  which  melted 
into  the  sky  in  a  band  of  azure  mist  scarcely  de 
finable.  In  this  belt  of  soft  color  the  white  sail  of 
a  fishing-boat  caught  the  sunlight,  and  shone  like 
the  under  side  of  a  bird's  wing  in  the  clouds. 

The  conversation  below  had  not  troubled  her, 
inasmuch  as  she  had  not  understood  it;  but  the 
strange  sounds  of  another  tongue  were  in  them 
selves  an  attraction,  to  say  nothing  of  Antonio's 
pointed  hat  with  broad  velvet  rim,  which,  from 
above,  completely  concealed  all  but  his  legs. 

Breakfast  was  just  finished,  and  Stephanie  had 
sent  to  inquire  if  this  guide,  well  recommended 
and  reliable,  had  yet  arrived.  When,  then,  this 
pointed  hat  and  pair  of  leathern  leggings  vanished, 
to  reappear  at  the  door  of  the  room,  it  seemed  to 
Renee  as  if  she  were  at  the  opera,  and  one  of  the 
actors  had  just  entered  from  the  flies. 

Wherever  he  went,  Antonio  carried  with  him  an 
«ir  which  had  the  effect  of  an  interrogation  point. 
He  might  have  been  some  decayed  Castilian  gen 
tleman  whom  reverses  had  driven  from  home,  and 
who  in  vain  sought  to  accommodate  himself  to  the 
gaudier  dress  and  livelier  manners  of  the  Southern 
province  ;  or  some  professor  of  languages  in  re 
duced  circumstances,  wearing  the  badges  of  his 


BUT  YET  A   WOMAN.  225 

unworthy  calling  with  an  ill-disguised  awkward 
ness  ;  or  a  very  Moor  indeed,  the  sad  relic  of 
other  days,  of  which  he  was  always  thinking. 

"  At  your  service,  senor-itas,"  he  said,  removing 
his  opera  hat,  and  changing  the  termination  of  the 
word  during  the  instant  that  he  glanced  at  the 
young  faces  of  the  French  ladies.  "  Here  are  two 
fillies  who  will  lead  me  a  pretty  jig !  "  he  thought 
beneath  his  grizzled  pate. 

During  the  settlement  of  the  preliminaries  with 
Stephanie,  Rene'e  gazed  at  this  specimen  of  di 
lapidated  dignity  with  wonder.  Left  to  herself,  it 
is  quite  likely  he  would  have  overawed  her;  from 
the  mere  fact  that  he  said  nothing,  lie  claimed  re. 
spect  and  excited  curiosity;  and,  at  the  same 
time,  like  a  prickly  pear,  which,  for  all  its  nee 
dles,  has  within  what  is  not  bad  eating,  his  man, 
ner  seemed  to  say,  "Provided  you  handle  me 
carefully,  I  am  not  such  a  bad  fellow." 

Stephanie  encountered  this  rough  surface  at  the 
outset.  They  were  to  go  to  Granada  that  night 
by  diligence.  Antonio  suggested  the  hiring  of  a 
calesa;  he  had  relations,  doubtless,  with  the  ven 
dor  of  these  vehicles,  and  had  a  thought  to  his 
pocket,  which  was  ever  empty,  —  "  because  it  is  so 
capacious,"  he  said.  But  the  pleasure  and  novelty 
of  a  diligence  ride  over  the  Sierras  was  precisely 
one  of  those  experiences  which  Stephanie  had  no 
mind  to  forego. 

"  You  fancy  the  springs  of  a  diligence  are  tern- 

15 


226  BUT  YET  A  WOMAN. 

pered  in  Toledo,"  said  Antonio,  determined  not 
to  begin  by  submitting  to  a  caprice.  "  I  promise 
you  your  bones  will  ache  for  a  month." 

"  Secure  us  seats  just  the  same,"  replied  Ste*pha- 
nie,  laughing  in  spite  of  his  brusqueness. 

"  It  will  consume  twice  the  time ;  and  if  it 
rains  "  — 

"  We  will  not  go." 

"  But  I  assure  you  "  — 

"  Antonio  ! "  said  Stephanie,  quietly,  "  am  I  to 
travel  with  you,  or  are  you  to  travel  with  me  ?  " 

"  Better  be  a  fool  than  obstinate,"  grumbled 
Antonio,  as  he  went  out  ;  though,  in  reality,  she 
had  risen  immeasurably  in  his  estimation  by  this 
display  of  decision.  Grim,  singular,  and  opinion 
ated  as  he  was,  like  any  lonely  old  eccentric  long 
lost  to  settled  moorings,  he  knew  the  real  metal 
When  he  found  it,  and  had  himself  a  mellow,  kindly 
side  which  his  new  mistresses  were  not  long  in 
discovering. 

It  will  be  many  a  year  before  Re'ne'e  forgets 
this  her  first  ride  in  one  of  the  last  strongholds  of 
picturesque  Europe.  How  many  illusions  a  jour- 
nev  dispels,  in  this  century,  before  whose  wire 
and  rails  and  press  variety  gives  way  to  unifor 
mity  ;  which  has  a  universal  solvent  for  all  the 
picturesque  remnants  of  older  civilizations,  and 
which  pushes  persistently  and  relentlessly  into  the 
past  all  those  figures  and  images  which  once  de 
lighted  us,  —  the  fluted  cap  and  gold  plate  of  the 


BUT  YET  A  WOMAN.  227 

Friesland  peasant,  the  conical  hats  and  bright  hues 
of  the  cantonal  costumes,  the  spurs,  leggings,  and 
sheepskin  of  the  herdsman. 

To  Re^iee,  especially,  it  was  a  land  of  enchant 
ment.  That  lumbering  old  vehicle,  with  its  faded 
colors  and  dusty  coat ;  its  leathern  baggage-cover, 
pulled  down  like  a  cap  over  the  eyes;  with  its 
half-dozen  pairs  of  mules,  whose  trappings  were 
covered  with  innumerable  little  tufts  of  red  wool 
and  silk,  interspersed  with  bells,  —  was  the  very 
coach  of  Cinderella ;  the  driver  coming  out  from 
the  stone  archway  of  the  stables,  with  his  peaked 
and  tasseled  hat,  broad  red  sash,  and  broidered 
jacket,  was  the  prince  of  the  opera. 

As  they  climbed  the  outlying  hills,  not  a  single 
shaft  of  palm  or  bristling  leaf  of  aloe  escaped  her 
eye.  Up  from  the  fertile  valleys,,  amid  the  green, 
flat  foliage  of  the  cactus,  twisted  and  misshapen, 
into  the  denies  of  the  ashen  and  desolate  moun 
tains,  she  seemed  about  to  enter  the  land  of  Dore\ 

Despite  the  predictions  of  Antonio,  she  at  last 
fell  asleep  with  her  head  on  Stephanie's  shoulder  ; 
but  it  was  long  after  the  night  had  let  loose  its 
leash  of  stars. 

When,  with  a  mellow  note  upon  the  horn,  this 
vehicle  drew  up,  after  midnight,  at  a  relay  station, 
where  supper  might  be  had,  and,  on  its  stoppage, 
all  the  noises  attendant  upon  its  motion  —  creak- 
ings,  groanings,  and  tinkling  of  bells — ceased 
also,  it  was  as  if  the  world  had  been  arrested  in  its 


228  BUT  YET  A   WOMAN. 

flight.  When  one  goes  to  sleep  to  a  motion  that 
is  positively  infernal  in  its  ingenuity,  sudden  peace 
is  a  nightmare.  The  ladies  did  not  alight,  but 
Antonio  brought  them  some  white  bread,  with 
creamy  cheese  of  goat's  milk,  burnt  almonds  fresh 
from  the  fire,  muscatels  from  Malaga,  and  pome 
granates  from  Granada. 

"  I  wish  we  might  live  in  the  Alhambra  itself," 
said  Renee,  in  the  morning,  when  Antonio,  ap 
pearing  mysteriously  at  the  window  while  the 
coach  was  at  a  full  gallop,  pointed  out  the  vermil 
ion  towers. 

"  The  sefiorita  can  do  so  if  she  wishes.  I  have 
a  friend  who  keeps  an  inn  by  the  Torre  de  los  Siete 
Suelos ;  it  is  as  good  as  being  in  the  palace." 

44  What  sort  of  an  inn  is  it,  Antonio?"  asked 
Stephanie. 

"  An  inn  without  fleas,  and  God  wot  there  be, 
few  such  in  Spain,  sefiora." 

"  Then  you  counsel  our  going  there." 
"  After  I  have  first  arranged  for  you.  Things 
do  not  go  there  on  a  grand  scale,"  he  said,  rolling 
the  r  in  a  way  which  conveyed  an  impression  of 
unparalleled  magnificence.  "  Pears  do  not  grow 
on  elms  ;  but  you  will  be  comfortable." 

So  that  night  found  them  installed  under  the 
shadow  of  the  Torre  de  los  Siete  Suelos. 

Although  the  diligence  ride  had  been  fatiguing, 
>*ey  were  both  ready  to  listen  to  the  proposition 
of  Antonio,  seconded  by  the  allurements  of  a 


BUT  YET  A    WOMAN.  229 

moonlight  night,  to  cross  the  dark  forest  of  oaks 
to  the  Torre  de  la  Vela.  For  a  long  two  hours 
they  sat  on  the  top  of  this  old  Moorish  watch- 
tower,  which  stands  on  the  crest  of  the  hill  of  the 
Alhambra,  and  almost  throws  its  shadow  on  tfife 
city  below.  Decked  with  a  thousand  lights,  this 
city  glittered  like  a  fairy  one  at  their  feet ;  faintly 
to  their  ears  came  up  the  tinkle  of  mule-bells  and 
the  twang  of  guitars  from  the  gypsy  caves  of  the 
Darro  ;  fresh  from  their  sources  in  the  snowy  Si 
erras,  the  twin  rivers,  mingled  in  the  Vega  beyond, 
ran  till,  a  silver  thread,  they  were  lost  to  view 
among  its  rich  and  level  gardens.  Behind  them, 
in  the  yellow  light  of  the  moon,  slept  the  Alham 
bra  and  palace  of  Charles  V. ;  over  the  gorge  of 
Los  Molinos,  the  white  walls  of  the  Generalife 
shone  in  their  dark  setting  of  orchards  ;  and  round 
about  this  Paradise  stood  the  mountains,  a  girdle 
of  safety.  What  might  not  these  silent  witnesses 
tell  of  what  they  had  seen  on  this  plain,  once  the 
battle-field  of  two  faiths  !  How  might  they  not 
recall  the  time  when  the  ruins  which  are  now  its 
chief  attraction  were  mosque  and  palace  and 
bridge,  thronged  with  life  ;  when  this  capital  vied 
with  the  opulent  cities  of  Italy  ;  when  its  waters 
flowed  through  a  thousand  irrigating  channels ; 
when  the  Arabian  was  the  teacher  of  Europe? 
Who  can  wander  now  over  that  plain,  still  a  gar 
den  basking  in  the  same  soft  climate,  but  from 
which  the  bloom  of  its  once  varied  husbandry  is 


230  BUT  YET  A    WOMAN. 

gone,  or  look  upon  that  decimated  city  on  which 
has  fallen  the  lethargy  of  idleness  and  poverty, 
without  a  vain  regret  for  the  splendor  and  pros 
perity  of  the  Mohammedan  rule  ?  Rome,  aa  head 
of  the  Church  and  capital  of  the  State,  still  pos 
sesses  elements  of  greatness,  and,  in  presence  of 
the  Forum  or  Coliseum,  the  dominant  feeling  is 
one  of  solemnity  and  awe  ;  but  in  Granada  there 
is  room  only  for  sadness.  What  sounds  float  up 
from  this  summer  palace  of  the  Moor  !  of  cymbals 
that  reverberate  in  its  domes,  and  of  fountains 
that  plash  in  its  open  courts.  Listen,  R<3nee  ! 
you  will  hear  the  stately  tread  of  silver-bearded 
men ;  Linderaxas  is  singing  in  the  gardens  of  the 
Generalife,  —  Zara  dallies  with  her  earrings  at 
the  well,  — and,  over  all,  a  voice  is  crying,  "  Al 
lah  is  great !  there  is  no  conqueror  but  God!  " 

It  was  a  scene  which  Stephanie  could  not  take 
in  as  rapidly  as  that  from  the  chateau  at  Beau- 
vais,  if  only  because  of  the  recollections  lingering 
here  like  the  fragrance  of  fallen  flowers.  R6ne'e 
responded  to  it  as  the  instrument  does  to  the  hand 
of  the  player;  but  Stephanie  was  out  of  tune. 

She  had  looked  forward  to  this  journey  with 
pleasure.  After  the  failure  of  those  projects  in 
which  for  a  time  she  had  immersed  herself,  that 
secret  restlestness,  only  temporarily  appeased, 
tugged  again  at  her  heartstrings.  Like  Hippom- 
enes,  who  heard  behind  him  the  steps  of  the  swift- 
footed  Atalanta,  she  knew  the  approach  of  this 


BUT  YET  A    WOMAN.  231 

enemy,  and  like  him,  also,  she  had  thrown  to  it 
the  golden  apples  of  a  momentary  diversion.  But 
M.  de  Marzac's  visit  had  put  on  this  voyage  a 
deux  a  new  face.  Whatever  her  feelings  for 
Roger  had  been,  or  her  attitude  in  regard  to  his 
relations  to  Re*ne*e,  up  to  that  time  she  had  floated 
purposelessly.  Perhaps  she  had  M.  de  Marzac  to 
thank.  In  Roger's  presence  she  had  at  least  be 
gun  to  dream,  —  to  taste  a  draught  so  refreshing, 
so  delicious  to  her  thirsty  lips,  that  it  would  per 
haps  have  mastered  her,  as  the  wine  that  quicken* 
the  admonishing  pulse  also  clouds  the  brain. 

She  really  loved  Renee.  The  bond  of  their  af 
fection  was  a  strand  of  common  nobility  and 
purity  of  character  ;  even  of  common  weakness. 
Some  friends  are  such  through  mutual  balance ; 
what  one  lacks  the  other  has  to  offer ;  when  one 
needs  restraint  or  urging,  the  other  is  there  with 
the  curb  or  the  spur.  By  this  opposition  of  influ 
ences,  they  maintain  a  truce  which  passes  for 
peace, — a  sort  of  statical  equilibrium  which  has 
more  of  rest  in  it  than  of  progress.  But  Rene'e 
and  Stephanie  journeyed  in  the  same  direction,  saw 
with  the  same  eyes,  and  were  wrought  out  of  the 
same  stuff.  The  equilibrium  was  dynamical. 

Under  ordinary  circumstances,  these  two  women, 
climbing  the  same  height,  might  have  reached  the 
summit  by  a  common  path.  But  this  path  had 
suddenly  narrowed ;  there  was  room  for  one  only 
to  pass,  — one  must  go  first,  the  other  follow. 


232  BUT  YET  A   WOMAtf. 

To  Stephanie's  decisive  and  resolute  nature  un 
certainty  and  delay  was  not  easy  to  endure.  Even 
heroism,  when  it  has  once  chosen,  prefers  a  sharp 
axe  and  a  sure,  quick  hand.  A  comforter  who 
should  have  essayed  with  her  what  the  priest  does, 
when  he  drowns  the  voice  of  the  headsman  with 
exhortations  and  hides  the  scaffold  with  the  cru. 
cifix,  would  have  been  a  long  way  out  of  his  road. 
Her  mind  was  intent  upon  the  thing  in  hand.  She 
could  think  with  a  heart  full  of  bitterness  of  the 
cruel  destiny  which  had  marked  her  for  its  own, 
dwelling  upon  the  things  that  could  not  be,  except 
at  the  price  of  her  own  shame  and  treachery  to 
Rene"e,  only  to  set  her  facethe  more  resolutely  and 
with  the  cold  pleasure  of  pride  against  that  dream 
which  could  never  be  realized.  She  had  struck 
its  death-blow  with  her  own  hand,  and  found  a 
cruel  joy  in  her  own  strength.  She  could  meet 
the  world  with  a  laugh  on  her  lips,  though  her 
heart  was  full  of  tears,  as  can  many  a  one  who 
lives,  and  yet  stands  upon  the  sod  which  overlies 
a  grave.  How  many  are  those  secret  burials  of 
hopes  and  early  ventures,  which  come  back  to  us 
after  their  short  flight,  bruised  and  dying,  and  are 
laid  away  without  other  service  or  hymn  than  the 
moan  of  our  own  hearts. 

But  she  was  not  alone.  As  she  laid  her  treas 
ure  away  she  heard  the  laugh  of  her  enemy  fore 
boding  she  knew  not  what  of  evil,  "  I  shall  be 
there,  to  take  my  revenge  ! "  What  would  he  do  ? 


BUT  YET  A   WOMAN.  233 

What  might  he  not  do,  to  betray  her,  to  drag  into 
the  light  of  the  world's  eyes  what  she  had  hid 
den  from  her  own,  to  poison  the  lives  of  those 
most  dear  to  her,  and  to  make  unavailing  a  costly 
sacrifice  ? 

Antonio,  who  had  sat  quietly  in  a  corner,  wrapped 
in  his  cloak,  while  the  ladies  enjoyed  the  view,  but 
who  knew  the  dangers  of  the  night  air,  had  whis 
pered  a  word  to  the  custodian  and  returned  to  the 
inn  for  "  more  clothes,"  as  he  said  to  Lizette,  who 
had  appeared  to  him  a  very  fit  subject  for  mild 
persecution. 

"  The  moon  laughs  at  you,"  he  said  to  Stepha 
nie,  apologetically,  as  he  presented  her  a  shawl. 

"  It  is  late  ;  we  must  go,  Renee,"  said  her  com 
panion,  rising. 

RdneVs  answer  was  a  long  sigh,  "  Deep  as  Bo- 
abdil's,"  she  said  ;  adding,  laughingly,  "  only  it  is 
not  my  last." 

On  the  way  down,  Antonio  showed  them  the 
bell  which  once  gave  warning  to  the  irrigators  on 
the  plain  below. 

"  If  you  strike  it  you  will  see  how  sweet  a 
tongue  it  has,"  he  said  to  Rene'e,  with  a  peculiar 
gesture  to  the  custodian. 

"  Shall  I,  Stephanie  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes,  if  you  wish  to." 

The  sound  was  silvery,  and  seemed  to  give  An 
tonio  especial  satisfaction. 

"  I  can  hear  that  bell  yet  in  my  ears,"  said  Re*- 
<*e*e,  as  they  passed  out  the  gateway. 


234  BUT  YET  A   WOMAN. 

"  It  is  a  good  sign,"  said  Antonio  from  behind ; 
"  to  the  maiden  who  strikes  it,  God  sends  a  good 
husband." 

Stephanie,  who  was  leading,  turned  and  gave 
a  quick  glance  at  Re'nee,  whose  eyes  halted  raid- 
way  between  a  frown  and  a  smile,  the  latter  at 
last  coming  off  victor.  It  is  so  easy  to  smile  when 
one  is  happy. 

"  Antonio,"  she  said,  as  they  reached  the  wood 
again,  "  you  must  show  us  a  ghost  before  we  go, 
a  real  Moor  with  a  turban  and  scimitar." 

Antonio  shot  a  swift  glance  at  her  from  under 
his  eyebrows. 

"  You  have  seen  them,  —  have  you  not,  An 
tonio  ?  " 

"  They  say  so,"  he  replied,  cautiously. 

"  Surely  you  believe  in  ghosts,  here  in  the  Al- 

hambra !  " 

"  Every  hair  casts  a  shadow,  senorita,"  was  the 

laconic  answer. 

They  were  crossing  an  open  space  in  the  moon 
light.  A  rude  cross  under  a  tree  caught  the  light 
on  its  naked  arms,  and  Antonio  crossed  himself 
piously. 

"  Why  is  it  here,  Antonio  ?  "  asked  Rene'e. 

"  A  man  was  killed  there,  senorita." 

They  found  Lizette  waiting.  She  was  not 
wholly  at  ease  in  that  lonely  inn.  She  had  al 
ready  made  up  her  mind  as  to  this  land  of  dili 
gences,  mules,  and  garlic,  as  one  fit  only  for  bar 


BUT  YET  A   WOMAN. 

barians.  Not  unlike  her  class,  she  could  be  more 
difficult  to  please  than  her  mistress.  Descending 
to  the  kitchen  that  night  on  some  errand,  she 
found  Antonio  relating  to  his  friend,  mine  host, 
how  the  young  French  lady  had  struck  the  bell 
with  the  silver  tongue.  Spanish  was  for  Lizette 
a  jargon  to  be  held  in  contempt  by  all  civilized 
people  ;  and  in  conversing  with  Antonio,  who 
spoke  French  fairly  well,  she  dealt  him  out  a  pa 
tois  of  short  phrases  and  ellipses,  such  as  one  uses 
with  babies. 

Antonio  repeated  the  incident  of  the  bell  for 
her  benefit  in  French. 

"  So  your  women  have  need  of  charmed  bells  to 
get  married,"  said  Lizette.  u  No  wonder !  " 

"  The  bell  is  a  good  one ;  still,  it  will  not  work 
miracles,"  replied  Antonio,  pointedly. 

"  A  silver  tongue,  truly  !  it  has  more  need  of 
a  golden  one." 

"  True,"  replied  he,  with  a  shrug.  "  But  what 
will  you  have  ?  Fools  are  not  so  plenty  in  Spain, 
and  they  are  more  wary  than  those  of  France." 

"  Rubbish  !  "  retorted  Lizette,  tartly. 

"At  our  age  you  may  well  say  so,"  Antonio 
answered,  with  a  well-feigned  sigh,  a  parting  shot 
which  Lizette  did  not  deign  to  answer. 

"  She  is  hot  as  pepper,"  said  mine  host,  with  a 
grin  as  if  his  mouth  was  full  of  that  article,  when 
she  had  gone. 

"  Ay,  and  spiced  with  spleen,"  said  Antonio, 
relapsing  into  smoke  and  silence. 


236  BUT  YET  A  WOMAN. 


XVI. 

M.  MICHEL  had  received  a  letter  from  Re*ne*e, 
written  on  her  arrival  at  Malaga.  A  few  days 
]ater  came  another,  which.  Father  Le  Blanc  read 
in  this  wise. 

He  was  sitting  one  evening  in  his  easy  chair,  — 
for  he  did  not  despise  comfort,  —  so  deep  in  the 
delights  of  his  book  that  he  did  not  even  lift  his 
eyes  from  the  page  on  hearing  the  timid  knock 
which  he  knew  so  well.  As  the  door  opened  softly, 
in  his  mind's  eye  there  stood  on  the  threshold  a 
short  little  figure  clothed  in  blue  serge,  and  wear 
ing  a  tight-fitting  cap  about  a  face  brown  as  a 
walnut  and  wrinkled  as  the  sea.  If  the  two  small 
round  eyes  of  this  face  were  closed,  it  contained 
no  suggestion  of  vitality ;  when  open,  however, 
their  perpetual  sparkle,  sharp  as  the  sword  of 
Saladin,  was  the  evidence  of  a  wiry  constitution 
which  had  survived  unimpaired  the  wreck  of  its 
external  trappings.  For  whatever  may  have  been 
true  in  the  past,  Rosalie  had  certainly  outgrown 
her  name. 

Every  want  and  way  of  her  master,  this  inten- 
dant  knew  by  heart,  and  every  detail  of  the  sim 
ple  nidnage  was  intrusted  to  her  care  ;  a  fact  which 


BUT  YET  A    WOMAN.  237 

did  not  in  the  least  prevent  her  from  knocking 
timidly  at  his  door,  nor  from  laying  before  him 
her  plans  for  a  gigot  a  la  jardiniere,  as  if  she 
expected  a  veto  in  respect  to  this  his  favorite 
dish. 

This  apparent  timidity  on  the  part  of  Rosalie 
was  half  real,  and  grew  out  of  a  habit  of  defer 
ence  to  all  her  superiors  which  was  natural  to 
her  as  a  servant  of  the  old  regime,  and  was  kept 
alive  further  by  her  profound  respect  for  her  mas 
ter,  not  only  as  such  but  as  priest  and  man.  But 
for  this  she  would  have  been  an  autocrat  of  the 
most  pronounced  type.  When,  at  the  close  of 
these  rather  one-sided  consultations,  Father  Le 
Blanc  said,  "  C'est  parfait  !  "  Rosalie  was  as  sat 
isfied  and  delighted  as  though  he  had  not  said  it  a 
hundred  times  before  in  the  very  same  tone  ;  and 
Father  Le  Blanc  had  grown  so  familiar  with  the 
nature  of  these  councils  that  he  had  contracted  the 
habit  of  not  listening;  he  continued  whatever  he 
happened  to  be  doing  at  the  time,  and  hud  only 
to  ratify  with  his  customary  phrase  the  propositions 
submitted  by  Rosalie,  when  the  cessation  of  her 
voice  announced  that  the  sitting  was  over. 

In  response  to  his  "  Entrez  !"  the  door  opened, 
but,  in  front  of  Rosalie's  blue  serge,  Father  Le 
Blanc  on  raising  his  eyes  perceived  the  figure  of 
M.  Michel. 

He  brought  a  letter  from  Renee,  written  the 
day  following  that  of  their  arrival  in  Granada. 


238  BUT  YET  A  WOMAN. 

"  We  reached  here  yesterday.  I  should  write 
you  of  our  ride  from  Malaga,  but  for  graver 
events. 

"  Last  evening  we  were  tempted  out  by  a  beau 
tiful  night,  and  were  probably  too  lightly  clad. 
This  morning  we  thought  to  take  a  day  of  rest 
before  attempting  any  sight-seeing  or  excursions, 
and  walked  down  to  the  Zacatin  only,  to  make  a 
few  purchases.  Stephanie  seemed  unusually  tired. 
She  lay  down  in  the  afternoon,  and  woke  with  a 
chill  which  frightened  me.  She  has  forbidden  me 
to  mention  it  in  my  letter,  but  she  is  more  restless 
and  feverish,  and  I  feel  such  a  sense  of  helpless 
ness  and  responsibility  that  I  could  not  promise 
her  I  would  not  do  so. 

"  We  have  sent  for  an  English  doctor,  and  are 
comfortably  located,  —  and  our  guide  is  very  faith 
ful.  Still,  I  wish  we  were  among  friends. 

"  RENEE. 

"  Antonio  takes  this  at  the  last  moment  to  the 
post.  The  doctor  has  been  here.  He  says  her 
symptoms  indicate  a  fever,  but  he  cannot  yet  say 
much.  What  he  says  is  not  reassuring." 

"  I  think  I  ought  to  go,"  said  M.  Michel,  as  Fa 
ther  Le  Blanc  looked  up  from  the  letter.  He 
stood  holding  it  in  his  hand,  thinking.  "  It  may 
prove  to  be  nothing,"  continued  M.  Michel.  "  On 
the  other  hand,  if  it  be  serious  "  — 

Father  Le  Blanc,  lost  in   reflection,  made   no 


BUT  YET  A  WOMAN.  239 

reply.  M.  Michel  took  the  letter  again  and  re 
read  it. 

44  I  have  a  better  plan,"  said  the  priest  at 
length. 

«  What  one  ?  " 

"  Let  us  send  M.  Lande." 

He  watched  the  effect  of  this  proposition,  but 
M.  Michel's  face  betrayed  nothing  unusual. 

"  The  son  ?  He  would  not  go,"  he  replied, 
emphatically.  "  Think  of  it !  So  far,  —  and  with 
his  engagements." 

44  But  if  he  would  ?  " 

"  Ah,  if  he  would  !     I  do  not  say." 

"  You  do  not  object." 

"  On  the  contrary.     But  "  — 

44  Well,  then,  leave  that  to  me.  I  answer  for 
him." 

44  You  think  so  ?  " 

44 1  am  sure  of  it.  I  will  go  this  instant  and 
bring  you  his  consent  to-night." 

He  put  on  his  hat  and  cloak,  and  descended 
with  M.  Michel.  Rosalie,  at  the  door,  followed 
him  out  the  entrance  way.  Never  before  to  her 
remembrance  had  he  gone  out  without  speaking 
to  her,  or  saying  at  what  hour  he  would  return  ; 
and  she  trudged  back  over  the  wooden  stairs 
somewhat  bewildered  at  this  sudden  depart 
ure,  and  set  to  work  knitting  vigorously.  Her 
needles  were  the  thermometer  of  her  feelings. 
When  lying  idle  in  her  laj>  they  indicated  the 


l-LQ  BUT  YET  A   WOMAN. 

eero  point  of  mental  energy,  and  at  every  degree 
of  rise  in  her  mental  activity  she  added  a  stitch 
to  the  number  per  minute. 

"  You  see  no  objection,"  repeated  Father  Le 
Blanc,  as  they  walked  down  the  Rue  Tiquetonne. 
He  saw  that  M.  Michel  did  not  comprehend  him, 
so  he  added  :  "  Nothing  could  be  better,  it  is  true. 
You  have,  entire  confidence  in  the  doctor:  he 
would  do  all  you  could,  and  much  more.  But  it 
is  a  young  man  we  are  sending  to  care  for  two 
young  women." 

Father  Le  Blanc  spoke  bluntly,  first,  because  it 
was  his  proposition,  and  he  felt  the  responsibility 
of  it ;  and,  second,  because  he  knew  there  were 
some  things  which  M.  Michel  never  perceived 
without  assistance. 

"  I  do  not  see  things  as  you  do,"  replied  M. 
Michel.  "  M.  Lande  goes  as  the  physician  of  the 
family.  But  I  will  go  also." 

"  That  seems  to  me  unnecessary,"  said  tiis 
friend ;  "  at  least  for  the  present." 

After  crossing  the  Seine,  M.  Michel  offered  to 
accompany  him  to  M.  Lande's. 

"  No,  it  is  needless.  I  carry  your  entreaty  with 
me,  and  on  my  return  I  will  pass  by  the  Rue  du 
Bac  and  inform  you  of  my  success." 

"  Tres  bien  !  tres  bien,"  said  M.  Michel,  as  he 
went  his  way  much  relieved  ;  for  with  all  his 
readiness  to  go  to  Spain,  he  none  the  less  dreaded 
so  long  a  journey. 


BUT   YET  A   WOMAN.  241 

"  Yes,  M.  le  Docteur  was  at  home,"  said  the 
servant  in  reply  to  Father  Le  Blanc's  query.  The 
latter  gave  a  sigh  of  relief,  and  followed  him  up 
the  polished  stairs. 

To  Roger's  greeting  he  replied  by  handing  to 
him  Re*neVs  letter. 

"  M.  Michel  proposes  to  go  to  Granada,"  he 
said,  when  Roger  reached  the  last  line.  "  It  is  a 
long  journey  for  him,  and  it  is  doubtful  how  he 
would  bear  it ;  especially  if  there  were  trouble  in 
store  for  him  at  its  end." 

Roger  looked  at  him  inquiringly. 

"  You  are  the  family  physician  "  — 

"  Not  of  very  long  standing,"  interposed  the 
other. 

"  True.  Fortunately  there  has  been  little  need 
of  one  in  the  past.  But  no  one  knows  what  kind 
of  services  can  be  had  in  Granada,  and  if  things 
go  badly  with  Madame  Milevski,  there  would  be 
Mademoiselle  Renee  also  in  a  sad  plight."  Father 
Le  Blanc  was  a  little  embarrassed  by  the  force 
of  his  own  logic,  and  went  to  the  window,  where 
he  stood  looking  out  into  the  street  with  his  back 
to  Roger. 

"  You  mean,  then,  that  I  should  go,"  said  the 
latter,  after  a  pause. 

"  That  is  what  I  propose." 

Roger  looked  at  Father  Le  Blanc's  back,  which 
at  that  instant  was  quite  as  expressive  as  his 
face. 

10 


242  BUT  YET  A  WOMAN. 

"  Monsieur,  let  us  be  frank  with  one  another. 
Does  M.  Michel  propose  this?" 

"  He  sends  me  to  you,"  said  the  priest,  turn 
ing  quickly. 

"  And  does  he  know,  —  what  you  do,  —  that  I 
love  Renee?" 

"  Faith,  I  did  not  know  it  myself,"  said  Father 
Le  Blanc,  laughing.  All  his  embarrassment  had 
vanished. 

"  You  may  call  this  accidental  ;  the  sickness  of 
Madame  Milevski  is  accidental,  and  you  come  to 
me  in  my  capacity  of  physician.  That  is  natural. 
But,  at  the  same  time,  you  throw  upon  my  pro 
tection  and  into  my  care  the  woman  whom  I 
love." 

"  You  express  word  for  word  my  own  thoughts," 
said  Father  Le  Blanc.  "  Some  one  must  love  her," 
he  added,  apologetically,  shrugging  his  shoulders. 

Roger  walked  the  room  agitatedly.  All  this  was 
a  dream,  with  a  possibly  bad  as  well  as  alluring 
side. 

"  When  will  you  go  ?     To-morrow,  I  suppose." 

"  I  wish  you  to  see  M.  Michel,"  said  Roger, 
at  length.  u  Tell  him  what  you  please  ;  but  if  I 
do  not  see  you  again  before  the  express  of  to 
morrow  morning,  I  shall  go  in  it.  Meanwhile  I 
shaL  have  much  to  do.  I  must  see  my  assistant, 
and  make  my  preparations." 

u  I  promise  to  see  him ;  and,"  added  Father  Le 
Blanc,  with  his  hand  on  the  door,  "  say  to  Made- 


BUT  YET  A  WOMAN.  243 

moiselle  Rdne'e  that  M.  Michel  sent  you,  and  to 
Madame  Milevski,  that  it  was  I." 

Roger  scanned  the  priest's  face,  perplexed. 

"  Ingrate  !  "  said  Father  Le  Blanc,  at  the  door. 
"  Do  as  I  bid  you.  Believe  less  in  accidents,  and 
have  more  respect  for  Providence ; "  and,  before 
the  door  was  closed  these  two  men  exchanged  a 
handshake  which  meant  so  many  things  that  it  is 
useless  to  attempt  to  tell  them. 

The  priest  returned,  as  he  had  promised,  by  the 
Rue  du  Bac. 

"  He  goes,"  he  said,  as  soon  as  the  door  was 
closed. 

"  1  feel  an  immense  relief,"  replied  M.  Michel, 
with  a  long  breath  which  bore  witness  to  his  ve 
racity.  "  He  will  not  only  give  help,  but  confi 
dence,  which  is  the  best  of  help." 

"  And  you  are  not  solicitous  for  —  for  what  I 
said  to  you  ?  Perhaps  you  would  not  thank  me 
for  this  suggestion  which  I  have  carried  out,  if  M. 
Lande,  finding  Madame  Milevski  recovered,  should 
steal  from  us  Rende." 

"  Do  you  speak  seriously,  my  friend  ?  " 

44  Why  not?" 

"  Why  not !  Because  you  know  very  well  R£- 
neVs  projects." 

"  The  convent  ?  " 

"  Yes,  certainly,  the  convent." 

"  She  is  not  yet  in  it,"  said  Father  Le  Blanc. 

M.  Michel  took  off  his  spectacles  and  rubbed 
them  meditatively. 


244  BUT  YET  A   WOMAN. 

"  You  begin  to  regret  the  step  we  have  taken  ?  " 
he  asked. 

"  Not  in  the  least !  "  exclaimed  Father  Le  Blanc, 
warmly. 

"  Let  us  say  no  more  about  it,  then.  For  my 
part,  I  believe  Renee  altogether  too  seriously  in 
clined." 

"  Love  is  a  serious  business,"  replied  the  priest, 
"  and  God  has  steeped  our  hearts  in  it." 

u  And  God  be  thanked,"  said  M.  Michel. 

"  He  does  not  in  the  least  know  what  he  is 
talking  about,"  Father  Le  Blanc  said  to  himself ; 
and  on  his  way  home  he  was  well  nigh  forgetting 
his  own  instrumentality  in  the  thought  of  a  Prov 
idence  that  had  given  to  an  uncle  a  niece  need 
ing  so  little  the  safeguards  which  this  uncle  did 
not  know  of,  and  had  sent  her  a  lover  who  had 
no  need  of  them  either. 

The  next  morning  came,  but  Father  Le  Blanc 
did  not  appear,  and  the  Marseilles  express  carried 
off  with  it  Roger  Lande. 

On  that  same  day  Stephanie  entered  the  crisis 
of  a  fever.  ReneVs  apprehensions  had  proved 
well  grounded ;  and,  as  usual,  hers,  beside  the 
couch,  were  graver  and  more  poignant  than  those 
of  Stephanie,  who  lay  stretched  upon  it. 

At  a  sudden  summons  we  are  led  out  of  the 
sun  and  air  to  the  edge  of  that  narrow  opening 
into  which  this  warm  and  living  body  is  to  be 
laid,  covered  up  forever  and  forgotten  in  damp 


BUT  YET  A   WOMAN.  245 

ness  and  night.  No  man  has  ever  come  up  from 
that  place ;  eye  nor  ear  has  ever  detected  faint- 
est  sound  or  lightest  stir  of  life  after  the  last  re 
luctant  breath  is  gone  out  from  the  home,  so  long 
tenanted,  into  space ;  in  all  the  universe  no  flower, 
or  seed,  or  fruit  that  has  come  up  from  the  cham 
bers  of  decay  is  that  one  which  was  sown  ;  and 
we,  entering  them  also,  carry  no  hope,  however 
life  has  answered  it,  which  has  not  beaten  echo- 
less  against  the  gates  of  death.  Yet  on  the  brink 
of  this  grave,  we  neither  shrink  nor  struggle.  In 
the  full  tide  of  life's  current  we  move  too  swiftly 
to  realize  this  absolute  rest,  and  as  we  enter  the 
swirl  of  the  vortex  the  swirl  mounts  to  the  brain. 
As  Renee  had  written,  on  their  return  from  the 
Zacatin  Stephanie  only  felt  more  than  usually 
tired,  and  resorted  to  the  usual  remedy.  On  wak 
ing,  she  had  a  chill. 

"  It  is  nothing,"  she  said  to  Renege,  whose  first 
thought  was  for  the  physician  ;  against  which 
Stephanie  protested.  But  as  the  afternoon  wore 
away,  bringing  headache  and  thirst,  Rdne'e  had  her 
way. 

The  next  morning  matters  were  no  better. 
44  An  inflammatory  fever,"  said  the  English  doc 
tor,  "  with  possibilities  of  something  worse,"  he 
added,  bluntly.  "  We  must  have  a  good  nurse," 
and  he  suggested  to  Renee  a  Sister  of  Charity, 
mentioning  a  French  one  whom  he  could  recom 
mend. 


246  BUT   YET  A  WOMAN. 

Rdnde  saw  that  Stephanie  was  really  sick,  and 
looked  the  situation  in  the  face  with  misgiving. 
But  there  was  a  kindly  interest  and  hopeful  in 
spiration  in  this  Englishman  which  gave  her  cour 
age. 

"You  must  not  worry,"  he  had  said  to  her. 
"  Keep  a  good  heart.  In  sickness  we  are  all  of 
the  same  country." 

She  was  not  conscious  of  his  large  hand  patting 
her  back  cheerily,  but  she  was  conscious  of  his 
sympathy,  though  it  had  an  accent  and  lived  be 
hind  a  rather  cold  exterior. 

Meanwhile  Stephanie  had  a  word  with  Lizette. 
She  felt  a  great  lassitude  conquering  her,  and  it 
began  to  blur  the  issues  and  interests  of  life,  over 
which  she  had  been  so  anxious. 

"  Lizette." 

"  Yes,  madame." 

She  was  sitting  at  the  bedside.  Antonio  was 
probably  right  as  to  the  spleen  ;  still  she  loved  her 
mistress  with  that  love  peculiar  to  those  of  widely 
different  ranks  and  conditions,  —  the  love  which 
the  dog  knows  for  its  master  who  falls  sick,  when 
it  whines  at  the  door  without  need  of  the  chain 
or  thought  of  its  dinner. 

"If  I  should  be  sick"  —  it  evidently  cost  her 
an  effort  to  say  this  —  "I  might  be  —  light 
headed.  You  understand  me,"  she  said,  looking 
at  Lizette,  who  understood,  but  did  not  know  what 
to  say. 


BUT  YET  A  WOMAN.  247 

"  Yes,  madame." 

"  She  must  not  hear  anything,"  she  said,  glanc 
ing  at  the  door  at  which  Renee  had  gone  out 
with  the  doctor. 

"  I  promise  you,  madame." 

"  Manage  it  —  somehow,"  she  said,  turning 
restlessly  and  closing  her  eyes. 

A  little  after,  Re'nee,  opening  the  door,  waked 
her  from  a  light  sleep  into  which  she  had  fallen. 

"  Remember  !  "  she  said  to  Lizette,  and  Lizette's 
intelligent  eyes  answered  significantly,  —— 

"  I  promise." 


248  BUT  YET  A  WOMAN. 


XVII. 

IMPATIENT  with  the  steamer  which  for  a  week 
had  been  creeping  along  the  Spanish  coast,  Roger 
experienced  a  delight  as  he  stepped  into  the  calesa 
he  had  hired  to  convey  him  from  Malaga  to  Gran 
ada.  Here,  at  last,  was  something  whose  velocity 
he  could  to  some  extent  control. 

More  than  a  week  had  elapsed  since  he  left 
Paris,  more  than  two  since  the  letter  he  carried 
in  his  pocket  had  been  written  ;  time  enough  for 
how  much  to  have  happened ! 

On  arriving  at  Granada,  he  stopped  at  the  hotel 
long  enough  only  to  deposit  his  baggage  and  to 
learn  the  address  of  the  English  doctor.  He  found 
the  latter  a  tall,  large-featured  man,  with  iron- 
gray  side  whiskers,  whose  look  seemed  to  say  to 
him,  u  Well,  and  what  malady  have  you  ! " 

"  I  have  just  arrived  from  Paris  in  behalf  of 
M.  Michel,  the  brother  of  Madame  Milevski.  My 
last  information  dates  from  the  evening  of  your 
first  summons,''  and  Roger  presented  his  card. 

The  Englishman's  face  and  manner  relaxed  as 
Roger  introduced  himself. 

" 1  shall  be  very  glad  to  surrender  the  case  into 
your  hands,  monsieur,  —  especially  now  that  ma- 
dame  is  better/' 


BUT  YET  A  WOMAN.  249 

"  She  is  better,  then  ?  " 

"  Decidedly  so  ;  but  the  road  up  the  hill  is  the 
longest." 

"  But  all  danger  is  over  ?  " 

"  Entirely,  —  without  accidents.  The  crisis  was 
passed  several  days  ago,"  and  he  detailed  at  length 
the  progress  of  the  fever  and  the  treatment  he 
had  pursued. 

"  And  now,  monsieur,"  he  said,  when  he  had 
finished,  "  I  am  happy  to  express  my  pleasure  at 
your  coming,  and  to  resign  madame  to  your  care." 

"  On  the  contrary,"  said  Roger,  "  you  are  to  do 
me  the  favor  to  continue  your  visits  as  if  I  had 
not  come.  In  what  time  do  you  think  madame 
might  travel  ?  "  . 

"  In  two  weeks  she  might  begin  to  think  of  it." 

"  She  sits  up  at  present?" 

"To-day,  a  half  hour,  for  the  first  time." 

"  And  mademoiselle  ?  " 

"  Is  perfectly  well,  —  a  little  tired,  but  that 
soon  passes." 

"  These  ladies,  in  a  strange  land,  owe  much  to 
you,"  said  Roger,  warmly;  "but  it  is  a  debt 
which  I,  and  many  others,  share  with  them,  and 
which  I  acknowledge  in  their  behalf.  And  now, 
if  you  please,  their  address." 

"  I  am  just  about  to  make  my  mornirtg  visit ; 
\f  you  will  permit  me,  I  will  conduct  you." 

They  passed  together  out  the  Puerta  de  las  Gra- 
nadas,  following  the  path  which  ascends  the  hilJ 


250  BUT  YET  A   WOMAN. 

under  the  lofty  trees.  Nestling  close  to  the  walls, 
the  inn  seemed  asleep  in  the  delicious  coolness  of 
the  forest.  A  wide-thatched  roof  extended  like  an 
awning  in  front  of  and  on  either  side  of  the  door, 
encircling  some  of  the  nearest  trees,  which,  with 
a  few  slender  posts,  formed  its  supports.  Under 
this  covering  were  scattered  some  tables,  at  one 
of  which  Antonio  was  sitting,  contemplating  an 
other  twenty-four  hours  of  idleness  with  profound 
satisfaction.  On  another  Lizette  had  laid  a  white 
cloth,  and  was  making  ready  a  breakfast.  Beside 
Antonio,  whose  somewhat  picturesque  costume  suf 
fered  on  a  close  examination,  and  who  appeared 
asleep,  —  although,  like  a  dog,  with  one  eye  open, 
—  this  brisk  figure  of  Lizette,  with  fresh  white 
cap,  formed  the  contrast  of  two  races.  She  had 
in  her  hair  a  red  blossom  of  the  rose  bay,  and 
was  arranging  a  basket  of  fresh  figs  with  their 
own  shiny  leaves  ;  an  occupation  which  did  not 
prevent  her  from  observing  with  curiosity  the 
stranger  approaching  with  the  doctor,  whose  air 
and  dress  announced  to  her  some  one  who  did  not 
belong  to  Granada. 

When,  as  he  drew  nearer,  she  recognized  him, 
the  pyramid  of  figs  she  had  been  constructing 
suddenly  gave  way ;  at  which  Antonio  laughed. 
On  hisfpart,  this  laugh  was  a  challenge.  He 
laughed  at  an  adversary  whom  he  wished  to  pro 
voke,  as  the  lackeys  of  Verona  bit  their  thumbs 
at  one  another.  But  Lizette  was  far  too  agitated 


BUT  YET  A  WOMAN.  251 

to  notice  this  provocation.     Roger  had  recognized 
her,  and  had  made  her  a  sign. 

"  Oblige  me  by  entering  as  usual,"  he  said  to 
the  doctor ;  "  but  say  nothing  of  me,  if  you  please. 
I  will  wait  here  till  you  return/'  He  wanted  the 
pleasure  of  a  surprise.  "  Your  mistress  is  better, 
Lizette." 

"  Dieu  merci,  oui,  monsieur." 

"  And  you  are  preparing  a  breakfast  for  some 
one  ?  " 

"  For  mademoiselle,  monsieur." 

"  Go  ask  her  if  she  will  permit  a  hungry  trav 
eler  to  share  it  with  her.  And  Lizette,"  he  said, 
calling  to  her,  as  she  hurried  away  so  full  of  her 
errand  she  could  hardly  wait  to  deliver  it,  "  say 
nothing  to  madame." 

At  the  door  she  met  Rende,  who  was  in  the 
habit  of  waiting  here  for  the  doctor,  when  he  came 
out  from  the  sick  chamber. 

It  was  the  last  thing  she  had  thought  of,  to  see 
Roger  Laude,  sitting  at  this  table  where  she  was 
to  breakfast,  under  the  oak  trees  of  the  Alham- 
bra.  But  Lizette  had  no  need  to  hurry  or  to  ex 
plain,  as  Rdnee  had  no  need  to  scrutinize  this 
stranger  now  advancing  to  meet  her.  Had  she 
been  alone  she  would  instinctively  have  put  her 
hand  on  her  heart.  A  week  ago,  when  Stephanie 
hovered  between  life  and  death,  this  self-same 
place  was  lonely  and  desolate  to  her,  and  she 
would  have  welcomed  this  face  from  home  with 


252  BUT  YET  A    WOMAN. 

intense  thankfulness,  but  with  scarcely  any  other 
emotion,  —  as  one  leans,  in  faintness,  on  one  does 
not  know  what.  But  now  that  danger  was  over, 
this  lovely  spot,  filled  with  the  freshness  of  morn 
ing,  not  only  regained  in  her  eyes  its  true  value, 
but  by  contrast  an  additional  one ;  and,  as  she 
came  to  the  door,  the  sunshine  filtering  through 
the  leaves  was  not  brighter  or  warmer  than  that 
which  filled  her  heart.  After  all,  why  should  not 
Roger  Lande  be  there!  When  the  heart  is  full 
nothing  surprises. 

"  Oh,  Monsieur  Lande,  I  am  so  glad  to  see 
you  !  "  she  exclaimed. 

The  color  mounted  to  her  face.  It  was  because 
sne  felt  it  there  that  she  stopped  short  in  a  pretty 
confusion.  She  knew  it  now,  —  this  joy  which,  at 
the  first  encounter,  had  won  a  victor}7  over  her 
self-control,  which  surged,  like  a  flood  let  loose, 
from  her  heart,  in  every  vein,  and  swelled  exult- 
ingly  in  her  throat.  Refuse  it  belief,  argue  with 
it,  disown  it  and  laugh  at  it  now,  Ren^e,  if  you 
can  !  Nothing  is  left  but  to  be  angry  and  to  con 
ceal  it.  But  this  effort  at  concealment  was  not 
very  successful.  It  was  well  enough  for  the  eyes 
of  a  lover  who  sees  nothing,  but  not  for  those  of 
Antonio,  though  he  had  but  one  open.  What 
wonder !  It  is  so  easy  to  be  natural  when  one 
does  not  desire  to,  —  that  is,  when  one  has  no 
reason  to  be  otherwise. 

They  sat  down  together  at  one  of  the  tables  in 


BUT  YET  A    WOMAN.  253 

the  shade.  After  the  first  surprise  was  over,  she 
had  so  much  to  tell,  of  those  first  days  of  appre 
hension  and  the  hours  of  suspense  and  uncertainty 
which  had  succeeded  them  ;  of  the  turn  in  the 
tide  ;  of  how  much  better  Stephanie  now  was  each 
day ;  of  how  kind  the  doctor  had  been  ;  and  of 
faithful  Antonio  even. 

"  Then  I  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  return  to 
Paris." 

Lovers  court  rebuffs  as  heroes  do  danger. 

"  You  must  consult  Stephanie,"  said  Re  ne'e,  de 
murely. 

"  I  certainly  shall  not  think  of  it  until  I  can 
report  to  M.  Michel  that  she  has  passed  all  the 
turning  points  and  is  on  the  highway  again  ; " 
and  he  told  her  of  her  uncle's  anxiety,  and  how, 
within  twelve  hours  after  receiving  her  letter,  he 
was  in  the  train. 

"  But  when  did  you  arrive  ?  " 

"  This  moment.  I  came  over  the  mountains  in 
the  night." 

"And  you  have  not  breakfasted?" 

"No,  nor  dined,"  said  Roger,  laughing.  "I 
confess  I  am  hungry." 

And  with  that  Re'ne'e  disappeared  in  the  door 
way.  How  pleasant  it  was  to  wait  her  return, 
to  be  conscious  she  was  to  return,  and  to  hear  her 
say,  ~ 

"  I  have  ordered  you  a  breakfast." 

In  a  short  half -hour  a  cover  was  laid  at  a  table 


254  BUT  YET  A  WOMAN. 

near  hers  ;  but  they  were  lost  in  conversation,  and 
Roger  had  forgotten  his  appetite. 

"  It  is  all  ready,"  mine  host  said  to  Antonio. 
His  puchero  was  steaming,  and  he  was  solicitous 
that  it  should  be  eaten  hot. 

"  So  you  have  not  even  visited  the  Alhambra," 
Roger  was  saying. 

"  Pardon,  sefior,"  said  Antonio,  taking  off  his 
hat  and  pointing  to  the  table  ;  "  in  soups  and  love 
the  first  is  the  best." 

The  imperturbable  gravity  of  Antonio's  coun 
tenance  disarmed  criticism,  and  he  retreated  in 
good  order,  under  cover  of  the  doctor,  who  had 
returned  from  the  sick  chamber. 

"Better,  always  better,"  he  said  in  reply  to 
Rene'e.  "  At  this  rate  she  will  soon  eat  her 
breakfast  here  with  you." 

"  I  am  going  to  see  her,"  Rene'e  said  to  Roger. 
"  Monsieur,"  she  explained,  pointing  to  the  doc 
tor,  "  is  very  rigid,  and  he  has  a  subaltern  in  the 
nurse  he  sent  us,  who  carries  out  his  orders.  I  am 
allowed  only  so  many  minutes  in  the  room.  I 
shall  tell  her  you  are  here." 

But  Lizette  was  before  her.  The  doctor  had 
not  taken  three  steps  down  the  stairs  before  she 
had  glided  into  the  room. 

What  a  bright  and  cheerful  aspect  this  room 
had  !  The  morning  toilette  was  over,  the  window 
was  open  to  the  sun  and  air,  and  Stephanie,  pale 
but  with  the  signs  of  returning  strength,  was 


BUT  YET  A   WOMAN.  255 

propped  up  in  a  reclining  chair  which  the  doctor 
had  sent  from  the  city.  The  chamber  itself,  so 
long  filled  with  a  heavy  atmosphere  and  oppres 
sive  silence,  and  which,  as  if  instinct  with  appre 
hension  and  sympathy  for  the  being  who  occupied 
it,  had  so  long  worn  that  aspect  of  dread  expec 
tancy  which  has  so  sinister  a  meaning,  had  become 
transformed.  Through  the  window  came  the 
myriad  sounds  of  life;  of  waters  trickling  among 
the  moss  and  roots  of  the  forest,  the  hum  of  in 
sects,  and  the  song  of  birds.  The  very  sunlight 
danced  for  joy  on  the  wooden  floor  among  the 
shadows  of  the  leaves,  and  played  over  the  gray 
dress  of  Soeur  Marie  as  she  sat  reading  her  prayers  ; 
for  Sceur  Marie  was  never  idle,  —  when  her  hands 
or  feet  were  not  busy,  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  God. 
Stephanie  often  wondered,  as  she  lay  in  the 
dreamy  quiescence  of  convalescence,  too  weak  for 
aught  beyond  a  passive  surrender  to  that  sense  of 
peace  which  the  slow  incoming  tide  of  life  brings 
with  it,  whether  or  no  Soeur  Marie  had  ever 
dreamed. 

Lizette  took  her  seat  quietly  beside  her  mis 
tress.  She  had  kept  the  promise  whose  import 
had  been  but  vaguely  comprehended  when  it  was 
given  ;  but  it  had  not  proved  unnecessary,  and  she 
knew  its  meaning  now.  So  did  Sceur  Marie,  as 
any  one  who  could  have  heard  her  prayers  would 
know.  Those  prayers  of  hers  ran  over  her  lips 
continuously,  like  the  water  over  a  dam,  and,  like 


256  BUT  YET  A   WOMAN. 

it  also,  set  in  motion  all  the  machinery  of  her  life, 
which  thus  became  itself  a  prayer. 

"  He  is  here,  madame,"  said  Lizette  in  a  whisper. 

Lizette  was  a  good  maid,  who  loved  her  mis 
tress.  But  this  did  not  prevent  her  from  feel- 
Ing  a  certain  importance  as  the  confidante  of  ma- 
dame  and  the  possessor  of  an  important  secret.  In 
the  first  surprise  of  Lizette's  announcement,  the 
thought  of  this  humiliation  was  more  to  Stdphanio 
than  the  fact  of  Roger's  arrival.  The  sense  of 
danger  under  which  she  had  spoken,  when  the 
dizziness  and  confusion  of  fever  began  to  master 
her  will  and  rob  her  of  self-control,  had  all  passed 
away.  Her  pride  leaped  out  like  a  sword  from  its 
scabbard,  with  the  words,  "  What  is  that  to  thee ! 
I  know  not  this  man."  But  Lizette  was  quick 
witted,  and  the  tact  which  had  once  led  her  to 
offer  her  own  prayer-book  to  Re*ne*e,  led  her  now, 
having  forewarned  her  mistress,  discreetly  to  with 
draw. 

It  was  a  few  minutes  before  Rdnde  came  in,  aiul 
in  those  few  moments  Stephanie  abandoned  her 
self  to  a  dream.  It  was  a  wild,  foolish  dream,  and 
she  knew  it, —  but  it  was  a  sweet  one.  Strange  ! 
though  side  by  side  with  this  dream  the  reality 
was  also  present,  she  found  a  keen  pleasure  in  this 
moment  of  surrender  to  it,  as  returning  health  it 
self  seemed  doubly  sweet  to  her  after  the  fever. 

So  close  is  the  alliance  between  pain  and  pleas 
ure  I     Each  is  the  true  child  only  of  the  other. 


BUT  YET  A  WOMAN.  257 

"  Stdphanie,"  said  Rdne*e,  who  had  stolen  in 
unnoticed,  and,  standing  behind  her  chair,  had 
stooped  over  and  kissed  her  hair,  "you  do  not 
know  how  happy  I  am  to  think  you  are  getting 
better." 

Leaning  over  the  back  of  the  chair,  she  had  put 
her  arms  about  her,  and  Stephanie  took  in  he* 
own  one  of  the  hands  crossed  on  her  breast. 

44  Who  do  you  think  my  uncle  has  sent  to  bring 
you  home  ?  " 

"  Baptiste ! " 

"What  an  idea!  Try  again.  But  you  will 
never  guess." 

"  Tell  me,  then." 

"I  want  the  pleasure  of  telling  you  after  you 
have  made  a  dozen  trials." 

"  I  shall  deprive  you  of  thQ  whole  of  it  by  guess 
ing  rightly  the  first  time." 

"  Try  !     I  defy  you." 

"Roger  Lande." 

"  How  did  you  know,  Stephanie  ?  " 

"  You  told  me." 

"You  are  getting  well,  for  you  are  trying  to 
tease  me,"  said  Rende,  kissing  her  hair  ;  "  but  I 
submit  to  it  on  that  condition." 

"It  was  a  needless  journey.  He  must  be  dis 
appointed." 

"Stephanie  !  you  are  positively  wicked." 

"  Have  you  seen  him  ?  " 

"Yes,  just  now." 
ir 


258  BUT  YET  A    WOMAN. 

"  Does  lie  return  directly  ?  " 
"  I  suppose  he  will,  if  you  wish  him  to  ;  but  if 
he  thought  that  he  could  be  of  service  to  you  I 
think  he  would  stay." 

Of  service  to  her  ?  Why  not  ?  Fortune  had 
thrown  this  opportunity  into  her  hands,  if  she  had 
only  the  courage  to  take  it.  Were  there  not  yet 
before  her  long  days  of  weakness  and  waiting,  in 
which,  if  Re'ne'e  loved  him,  —  ah  !  if  Rende  loved 
him  !  All  this  battle  had  been  fought  once,  and 
in  a  decision  once  made  there  is  a  tremendous  in 
ertia,  although  it  has  practically  to  be  made  over 
again  a  second  time.  Why  should  he  not  stay  ?  or 
why  should  she  hesitate  at  this  which  she  had 
desired  ? 

"  Yes,  he  ought  to,  if  he  can,  —  at  least,  till  I 
am  a  little  stronger.  -  Say  to  him  that  I  wish  it." 
"  You  will  not  see  him  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Stephanie,  letting  go  of  RdneVs 
hand. 

"  You  must  not  talk  to  madame  too  long,"  said 
Sceur  Marie. 

"  No,  I  am  going." 

"  ReneV  said  Stephanie,  "  you  must  take  An- 
tonio  with  M.  Lande,  and  see  Granada  while  I  am 
getting  better.  You  have  had  anxiety  for  an  ex 
cuse  long  enough,"  she  said,  smiling  faintly,  "  but 
you  have  it  no  longer.  It  is  absurd  for  you  to 
stay  here  at  my  door  all  the  day  long.  You  must 
recover  lost  time,  and  compensate  M.  Lande  foi 


BUT  YET  A  WOMAN.  259 

his  journey.  Antonio  must  be  fairly  rusting 
away." 

"  Madame,  je  vous  en  prie,"  said  Soeur  Marie. 
"  See,  mademoiselle,  how  pale  her  face  is." 

This  second  warning  set  Re'ne'e  in  motion. 
Stephanie  watched  her  as  she  went,  and  it  seemed 
to  be  her  own  self  she  saw  standing  in  the  door 
way  with  a  happy  smile  on  its  face,  sending  her 
a  bright  glance  of  good-by.  "  If  I  were  dying," 
she  thought,  with  a  bitter  irony  in  her  heart,  ubut 
I  am  getting  better." 

When  Stephanie  advised  Rene'e  to  make  good 
the  time  lost  during  her  sickness,  she  knew  she 
was  giving,  not  advice,  hut  a  permission;  and 
when. Roger  came,  as  he  did  every  morning,  to  in 
quire  for  Stephanie,  he  had  no  need  to  give  Rene'e 
formal  invitations.  Did  not  everything  invite 
them  on  those  mornings  ?  In  a  week  they  had 
explored  every  nook  of  the  palace,  and  knew  every 
path  on  the  hill  of  the  Alhambra.  If  Madame 
Valfort  would  have  protested  against  the  freedom 
of  Beauvais,  that  of  Granada  certainly  would  have 
rendered  her  mute.  Even  Antonio  seemed  in 
league  with  the  rest,  and,  finding  his  services  in  no 
great  demand,  preferred  the  siestas  and  cigarettes 
of  the  Posada  of  the  Siete  Suelos  to  walks  and 
excursions  in  which  he  might  have  been  cicerone 
had  he  been  asked. 

In  these  rambles  Roger  found  a  pleasure  apart 
from  that  of  being  with  Rene'e  —  the  pleasure  of 


260  BUT  YET  A  WOMAN. 

peace  and  restfulness,  so  deep  and  tranquil  that  he 
was  content  simply  to  enjoy  it.  Could  Re*ne*e 
have  been  transferred  to  Paris  and  surrounded 
with  society,  this  charm  would  have  vanished. 
Here  were  no  prior  engagements,  no  disappoint 
ments,  no  division  of  favors.  From  the  time  he 
first  found  her  in  her  fresh  white  morning  dress 
under  the  trees,  she  was  his  for  all  the  day. 
These  were  days  to  hurry  which  would  have  been 
a  crime.  Why  are  we  in  such  a  fever  to  finish  ! 
There  was  no  press  of  society  and  contention  of 
aspirants,  no  jealousies,  no  heart-burnings,  no  an 
noyances.  Renee  knew  that  Roger  loved  her.  If 
she  did  not  fully  know  also  that  she  loved  him,  it 
was  because  as  yet  nothing  had  forced  her  to  an 
swer  this  question  ;  so  that  she  still  preserved  the 
subtle  pleasure  of  reluctance,  which,  once  aban 
doned,  cannot  be  recalled.  It  was  this  reluctance 
which  told  her  most  she  was  loved.  She  knew 
the  path,  though  she  had  never  seen  it ;  and  she 
followed  it  with  her  eyes  half  shut,  in  a  blessed 
awe,  holding  back  for  very  happiness  against  the 
hand  which  drew  her  on,  and  finding,  in  the  very 
sense  of  being  led,  that  happiness. 

When  she  followed  with  him  the  road  which 
wound  up  the  ravine  of  Los  Molinos,  it  was  in 
reality  this  other  road  she  traversed,  leading  to 
other  gardens  than  those  of  the  Generalife.  Was 
it  not  fortunate  that  Antonio  was  not  with  them  ? 
For  his  instinct  would  have  gotten  the  better  oi 


BUT   YET  A   WOMAJS.  261 

his  tact,  and  he  would  have  made  Re*nee  start  as 
from  a  dream  by  saying,  under  the  cypress-tree 
of  the  Generalife,  "  This,  mademoiselle,  was  the 
trysting-place  of  Zoraya."  What  a  revealer  is 
love.  Does  the  heart  open  to  its  influences,  as  the 
flower  opens  to  the  sun,  to  yield  its  treasures  to  a 
wind  that  steals  and  scatters  them  forever?  So, 
too,  like  the  flower,  it  opens  its  eye  then,  for  the 
first  time,  upon  the  wide  world,  —  and  sees  the 
mystery  of  life  and  deatli  and  destiny. 

But  this  was  a  lesson  which  both  read,  Roger 
not  less  than  R£nee.  She  had  the  instinctive  fac 
ulty  of  revelation.  She  reached  the  heart  of 
things  by  a  feminine  apprehension  so  delicate  and 
so  natural  that  she  might  almost  seem  herself  to 
dwell  there.  She  saw  in  everything  something  he 
had  not  seen  ;  for  him  she  was  the  interpreter. 
There  were  problems  and  questions  before  which 
he  had  planted  his  siege  batteries  of  heavy  artil 
lery,  to  conquer  by  the  parallels  and  approaches 
of  a  regular  investment,  —  which,  if  she  had  not 
always  the  key  to  them,  she  could  illuminate  with 
a  word,  or  rob  them  of  all  importance. 

How  many  times  this  young  heart,  so  keenly 
susceptible  to  good  impressions,  received  them 
from  that  which  had  passed  him  by,  to  reflect 
them,  with  the  added  grace  of  her  own  sweet  na 
ture,  upon  his.  She  was  ever  a  little  grave,  and 
more  sedate  than  most  are,  and  this  inheritance  of 
the  Rue  du  Bac  never  wholly  forsook  her.  But 


262  BUT  YET  A  WOMAN, 

i 

in  the  unrestraint  of  the  present,  amid  the  fresh 
ness  of  all  that  surrounded  her  and  the  novelty  of 
her  situation,  the  deeper  impulses  of  her  nature 
pushed  up  as  flowers  through  the  sod,  and  these 
impulses,  springing  from  the  woman's  heart,  how 
often  they  outran  the  calculations  of  the  man. 

More  things  than  were  dreamt  of  in  his  phi 
losophy  she  showed  him,  —  from  the  white  star  of 
the  jessamine  in  the  path  they  trod,  up  to  the  finer 
aspirations  of  his  own  soul,  which  ambition  had 
well-nigh  choked  with  its  thorns. 

She  was  at  her  best,  for  she  was  happy.  While 
not  forgetting  the  convent  or  Soeur  Ursule,  she 
had  the  feeling  that  everything  was  right.  Once, 
in  the  city,  a  file  of  nuns,  moving  two  by  two 
down  a  narrow  street,  obliged  her  to  wait  with 
Roger  in  a  doorway  until  they  had  passed ;  and 
for  the  moment  it  seemed  to  her  there  was  a  re 
proach  in  their  grave  averted  eyes.  Sometimes, 
too,  after  Roger  had  gone,  when,  in  the  quiet  of 
her  own  room,  she  opened  the  clasped  prayer-book 
Soeur  Ursule  had  given  her,  she  lapsed  between 
the  prayers  into  reverie,  with  the  book  open  on 
her  lap.  No,  she  had  not  forgotten.  Soeur  Marie, 
going  about  her  daily  round  of  duties,  was  a  con 
stant  reminder.  But  her  doubts  were  fugitive, 
like  birds  of  passage.  Was  it  that,  on  the  thresh 
old  of  love,  she  saw  within  the  portal  such  possi 
bilities  as  made  the  monotonous,  almost  menial, 
life  of  Sosur  Marie  seem  unworthy?  Possibly  it 


BUT  YET  A  WOMAN.  263 

was  Sceur  Ursule's  poverty  of  experience  that  had 
led  her  to  overestimate  the  ease  with  which  Re  ne'e 
should  conquer  nature.  For  before  this  portal 
hung  with  orange  blossoms,  timorous,  shy,  igno 
rant,  she  nevertheless  stood  knocking,  drawn 
thitherward,  yet  gladly, — too  happy  for  doubts? 
or  fears,  rather  than  happy  because  she  had  none. 

Stephanie  did  not  verify  the  doctor's  prediction 
that  she  would  breakfast  with  Rende  under  the 
trees  in  a  week  ;  but  one  morning  Lizette  was  told 
to  order  the  table  laid  for  dejeuner  in  the  garden. 

Every  morning  M.  Lande  had  sent  fresh  flowers, 
which  were  placed  on  a  stand  beside  Stephanie; 
and  to-day  Lizette  would  have  had  her  mistress 
wear  one,  but  did  not  dare  suggest  it.  This  was 
her  only  grievance,  that  madame  never  consulted 
her.  She  would  have  counselled  her  appearance 
several  days  ago,  —  the  traces  of  sickness  were 
well-nigh  gone,  and  that  this  was  what  she  was 
waiting  for  Lizette  was  confident,  —  but  madame 
had  not  asked  her  opinion.  Lizette  had  had  mis 
tresses  whom  she  feared  without  loving,  and  even 
despised  ;  whom  she  knew  better  than  their  cour 
tiers  did  ;  who  did  not  attempt  to  impose  upon 
her  with  those  artifices  to  which  they  resorted 
with  others  through  fear  of  being  understood. 
But  madame  had  no  artifices.  It  disturbed  Li 
zette  much,  in  the  early  period  of  her  service,  that 
she  could  never  take  Stephanie  by  surprise  ;  but 
she  had  at  last  realized  that  there  might  be  a  dif- 


264  BUT  YET  A    WOMAN. 

ference  between  maid  and  mistress,  due  neither 
to  rank,  wealth,  nor  education,  — accidental  differ 
ences  which  she  scorned,  because  generally  her  own 
shrewdness  and  her  mistress'  weaknesses  enabled 
her  to  surmount  them,  — a  difference  of  nature, 
which  seems  always  to  render  its  possessor  supe 
rior  to  her  company. 

And  yet  Lizette  was  quite  likely  right ;  for  after 
she  had  gone,  Stephanie  took  up  the  hand-glass, 
and  searched  it  as  for  something  lost. 

It  must  have  been  through  a  mere  sense  of  duty 
that  observant  Soeur  Marie  said  gently,  "  What 
matters  it  ?  "  for  the  image  in  the  glass  called 
neither  for  condolence  nor  resignation. 

"  Nothing,  ma  sceur,"  said  Stephanie,  and  she 
thought  of  the  flowers  on  her  dressing-table,  which 
the  evening  before  had  closed  and  this  morning 
had  opened,  as  if  the  scissors  of  the  gardener  had 
not  cut  them  off  from  the  sources  of  life. 

Her  sudden  determination  had  taken  every  one 
by  surprise.  Ren6~e  had  gone  down  to  the  Za- 
catin  with  Antonio,  and  M.  Lande  had  not  yet 
come  up  from  the  city.  Only  a  flower-girl,  on 
whose  brown  cheek  flamed  a  color  vivid  as 
those  of  her  wares,  disputed  the  solitude  with  a 
little  beggar-boy  coiled  up  asleep  in  his  shady  am 
buscade  like  a  bent  wire.  From  the  trees  festoons 
of  creepers  hung  drowsily  in  a  delicious  air  ;  a 
faint  breeze  lifted  at  intervals  the  frond;ige  scaling 
the  tower  wall,  to  die  away  in  the  effort.  The 


BUT  YET  A   WOMAN.  265 

long  aisles  under  the  elms,  into  which,  now  and 
then,  sunbeams  ventured,  to  vanish  on  the  instant 
like  fear-stricken  intruders,  opened  vistas  over 
terraces  of  orange  and  cypress  upon  the  Vega 
glistening  with  intersecting  waters.  Soeur  Marie 
had  followed  Stephanie,  and  sat  quietly  by  her 
side  during  breakfast.  The  nun's  pale  face  and 
thin  lips  seemed  strangely  out  of  place.  The 
natural  product  of  that  air  and  sky  was  the  little 
flower-girl,  whose  brown  skin  was  lustrous  as  the 
bloom  of  the  Andalnsian  grape,  and  in  whose  dark 
eye  shone  the  dangerous  fires  of  its  wine. 

"  How  beautiful  the  world  is  !  "  said  Stephanie. 

In  the  cant  of  the  convent,  "  the  world  "  meant 
only  one  thing  to  Soeur  Marie. 

"  The  world,  always  the  world,"  she  said,  with 
a  little  smile  and  moue.  Despite  her  gravity,  she 
had  naturally  a  playful  way,  which,  overlaid  as  it 
was  by  the  serenity  of  her  calling,  gave  a  charm 
even  to  her  reproofs. 

"  What  do  you  know  of  it,  little  sister  ?  "  said 
Stephanie,  amused  at  her  superficial  wisdom. 

"  I  have  seen  a  great  deal  of  it,"  replied  Soeur 
Marie,  with  a  sigh  of  conviction. 

"  From  the  outside.  Moreover,"  after  a  pause, 
tt  seeing  is  not  knowing." 

"It  is  a  prison,  but  no  home.  It  is  full  of 
pleasures  which,  like  sweet  wine,  double  the  thirst 
but  never  satisfy  ;  oftenest  not  really  such  pleas 
ures,  only  the  hope  of  them  fleeing  before  like  to« 


266  BUT  YET  A    WOMAN. 

morrow.     The  world   is   a   garden  full  of   sweet 
poisons,  without  a  single  antidote." 

"  There  are  moments  of  pleasure  worth  a  life 
time,  my  sister." 

"  Life-time  means  eternity,"  replied  Soeur  Marie. 
The  flower-girl  had  approached  them  with  her 
tray  full  of  what  might  be  had  for  the  picking  in 
this  garden  of  nature,  "  ambient  in  perfume,  ex 
quisite  in  fruits."  But  begging  in  Spain  wears 
all  masks,  even  that  of  flowers.  Standing  with 
pleading  attitude  and  beseeching  eyes,  she  was  a 
true  child  of  the  south,— bare,  dirty  feet  and 
cheeks  of  velvet ;  lazy  limbs  and  blood  of  fire ; 
tattered  rags  over  the  contours  of  a  model. 

"  You  love  flowers,  sister,"  said  Stephanie. 

"  Our  Lady  loves  them." 

"  Don't  you  love  them  for  themselves,  of  your 
own  accord?  " 

"  Ah  !    madame,  what  is  sweeter  than  to  love 
what  our  blessed  Mother  loves?  " 

"  Why  does  she  love  them,  sister  ?  " 

"  For  el  amor  de  Dios,"  chimed  in  the  flower- 
girl. 

Stdphanie  bought  a  spray  of  mimosa,  woven  in 
with  myrtle  and  roses. 

"  Let   us    take  a  walk.     I    feel    it  will    do  me 
good,"  she  said  to  Sceur  Marie. 

"  1  am  afraid  you  are  not  strong  enough." 

"  Yes,  a  little  way.     This  air  is  an  elixir." 

They  passed  down  the  avenue,  under  the  my& 


BUT  YET  A    WOMAN.  267 

tic  hand  and  key  of  the  great  gate,  through  the 
Court  of  Myrtles,  into  the  Hall  of  Ambassadors, 
and  seated  themselves  in  its  alcoved  window. 

"  You  are  tired ;  you  have  come  too  far,"  said 
her  companion. 

"  No,  I  feel  stronger  than  you  think.  Every 
thing  refreshes  me." 

She  leaned  over  the  window  and  looked  into  the 
green  depths  below,  a  mass  of  vegetation  ;  of  or 
ange,  pomegranate,  and  cypress,  amid  which  the 
waters  of  the  Darro  hastened  ;  of  myrtle,  laurel, 
fire-plant,  and  rose  bay,  scaling  the  walls  guarding 
the  river,  climbing  the  very  battlements  of  the 
fortress,  —  an  army  of  luxuriant  verdure,  a  mosaic 
of  moisture  and  sunlight,  dark  shadow  and  blos 
soming  flame. 

Looking  at  this  view,  she  forgot  So3ur  Marie, 
who,  left  to  herself,  reopened  her  prayer-book. 
What  a  companion  Father  Le  Blanc  would  have 
been  for  her  in  this  recessed  window  !  Looking 
up  from  the  gray  dress  and  pale  moving  lips  of 
the  sister,  into  the  roof,  whose  gorgeous  hues  had 
been  to  its  inmates  an  undying  remembrance  of 
the  flowers  on  the  upp^r  plains  of  Arabia,  was 
like  taking  an  upward  flight  from  a  narrow  self- 
denial  and  fruitless  obedience  into  a  region  of 
freedom  and  splendid  achievement.  This  dome 
was  the  symbol  of  brilliant  audacity  and  tender 
phantasy.  Where  was  duty?  Did  it  overarch 
her  simple  companion  with  a  radiance  too  bright 


268  BUT  YET  A  WOMAN. 

for  her  eyes,  or  had  she  it  fast  between  the  dingy 
covers  of  her  book  ? 

Suddenly  the  book  was  closed.  Footsteps  were 
heard  in  the  Court  of  Myrtles,  then  a  voice,  sin 
gularly  clear  and  sweet,  which  made  her  start. 


£UT  YET  A  WOMAN.  269 


XVIII. 

M.  LANDE  was  that  morning  writing  his  letters 
in  the  cafe*  of  the  hotel.  He  had  begun  seriously 
to  ask  himself  why  Madame  Milevski,  who  was 
now  so  much  better,  had  not  permitted  him  to  see 
her.  His  position  embarrassed  him.  He  could 
neither  go,  nor  remain.  Two  weeks  had  flown  by 
like  a  dream,  and  he  felt  that  with  regard  to  Re- 
nee  lie  owed  a  duty  to  madame  which  her  seclu 
sion  would  not  allow  him  to  discharge.  Letters 
and  telegrams  afforded  him  ample  excuse  to  re 
turn  to  Paris,  but  to  leave  without  speaking  to 
Re*nee  was  impossible,  and  this  step  delicacy  for 
bade  him  to  take,  notwithstanding  his  warning  to 
Father  Le  Blanc,  without  the  authority  of  ReneVs 
present  protectress. 

His  letters  finished,  he  took  his  way  up  the  hill, 
preoccupied  with  these  thoughts.  He  was  almost 
inclined  to  classify  Madame  Milevski  among  the 
eccentrics,  and  to  demand  an  audience.  Walking 
rapidly,  as  was  his  wont,  he  overtook  a  priest  f<»l 
lowing  leisurely  the  same  path.  A  priest  was  no 
unusual  sight  in  Spain,  nor  would  this  one  have 
attracted  his  attention  but  for  certain  peculiarities 
in  his  walk  and  bearing  not  characteristic  of  the 


270  BUT  YET  A   WOMAN. 

Spanish  monk.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had 
somewhere  seen  this  figure  before. 

What  are  those  nameless  accents,  so  distinct 
and  yet  so  difficult  to  define,  which  mark  off  the 
individual  from  the  million,  even  at  a  distance  ? 

As  he  approached,  the  priest  turned  and  saluted 
him.  It  was  the  face  he  had  seen  at  Aix  in  the 
garden  of  the  Hotel  du  Nord  with  Madame  Mi- 
levski. 

"  Good  morning,  senor,"  he  said  in  Spanish,  lift 
ing  his  hat. 

Roger  answered  in  French,  in  which  language 
the  conversation  was  continued. 

The  priest's  face  was  an  attractive  one,  although 
composed  of  discordant  elements.  It  was  not  thin, 
yet  clear  cut,  wearing  in  repose  a  high  and  noble 
expression  which,  when  he  spoke,  produced  an 
effect  of  authority,  without  the  least  pretension. 
On  removing  his  hat,  as  he  did  later  in  the  shaded 
walk  which  they  traversed,  the  tonsured  head  to 
gether  with  the  straight  lines  of  his  robe  height 
ened  an  air  of  resolve  peculiar  to  his  face.  Its 
predominant  trait  was  a  marked  intellectuality, 
never  indeed  wholly  absent,  yet  at  times  so  trans 
figured  by  a  persuasive  sweetness  as  to  destroy 
any  impression  of  coldness  which  might  first  have 
been  made.  So  the  soft  lights  of  a  crystal  hide  its 
angles  without  causing  us  to  forget  its  hardness. 

They  fell  into  a  conversation  upon  the  many 
events  suggested  by  the  place.  Perhaps  the  pen- 


BUT  YET  A  WOMAN.  271 

etration  of  Father  Roche  detected  in  his  com 
panion  a  spirit  of  criticism,  or  regret,  which  in 
this  tomb  of  Moorish  splendor  is  not  uncommon 
to  the  traveler.  He  replied  for  a  time  in  mono 
syllables,  not  distinctly  of  assent,  yet  placing  no 
check  upon  his  companion's  utterance.  He  had 
a  way  of  making  one  feel  at  one's  best  and  of 
opening  the  lips  of  another  without  opening  his 
own. 

"  History,'*  said  he  at  last,  "  is  the  most  impor 
tant  and  the  most  dangerous  of  studies.  The 
zealot  and  the  liberal  alike  find  in  its  pages  their 
arguments,  while  the  inquirer  sees  at  first  only  a 
vast  flux  without  apparent  order  or  stability.  Out 
of  it  theorists  gather  what  they  need,  or  construct 
what  they  desire,  and  the  evil-minded  find  there 
every  excuse  at  hand.  The  most  enthusiastic  and 
conscientious  student  will  rise  from  its  study  only 
with  weariness  and  disappointment,  if  not  disgust 
for  all  those  party  strifes  undertaken  in  the  name 
of  God  and  truth,  but  embittered  by  selfishness 
and  ambition,  for  all  those  creeds  whose  very  lof 
tiness  is  the  proof  of  man's  need  and  misery,  if  he 
does  not  bring  to  that  study  the  maturity  of  an 
experience  which  has  outgrown  the  illusions  of 
youth,  and  a  faith  which  enables  him  to  see  the 
Divine  purpose.  History  is  not  an  ice-floe  of 
fragments,  which  clash  aimlessly  and  melt  away, 
to  him  who  discovers  the  drift  of  the  current;  it 
is  rather  a  ladder  upon  which  one  may  ascend 


272  BUT  YET  A  WOMAN. 

into  the  council  chamber  of  God.  Yes,  it  is  easiei 
to  prophesy  the  future  than  to  interpret  the  past." 

They  passed  some  curious  plants  by  the  way 
side,  which  Father  Roche  paused  to  examine,  and 
on  which  he  made  some  observations  surprising 
to  Roger. 

"You  have  studied  botany,  monsieur?"  he 
asked. 

"  A  little,"  replied  the  priest,  modestly.  "  I 
love  much  the  sciences." 

*k  Then  you  do  not  fear  them  ?  " 

"  Those  who  fear  science  live  in  ruts  so  deep 
that  they  cannot  see  over  them." 

"  And  yet  Religion  to-day  is  losing  treasures 
which  she  must  regret,  and  of  which  Science  alone 
despoils  her.  Like  the  foolish  virgin  of  the  par 
able,  she  wakes  from  dreams  to  find  that  her  com 
panion  has  bought  oil  and  kept  her  lamp  trimmed, 
while  she  was  lost  in  visions." 

Father  Roche  made  no  reply,  and  they  walked 
on  for  a  time  in  silence. 

"  I  do  not  say,"  continued  Roger,  u  that  science 
destroys  religion,  that  it  even  affects  those  great 
focal  lines  of  probability  which  converge  towards 
one  centre.  But  those  poems  on  which  the  world 
has  fed,  so  full  of  mystery  and  promise,  those 
dreams  in  which  everything  appeared  great  be 
cause  we  were  children,  —  does  it  give  you  no 
pain  to  see  them  fade  away  ?  Science  has  no 
quarrel  with  religion,  but  with  religions.  Aspira- 


BUT  YET  A   WOMAN.  273 

tion  cannot  live  upon  generalities ;  it  defines  and 
specifies  ;  it  clothes  itself  with  the  creations  of  its 
own  enthusiasm  and  revery,  and  transmutes  each 
hint  and  hope  into  a  certainty.  Have  you  no  fear 
of  that  colder,  rational  method  which  cheeks  every 
conjecture  by  a  thousand  experiments,  and  con 
fronts,  not  the  native  desires  of  the  soul,  but  the 
creed  into  which  they  have  crystallized,  with  the 
spectre  of  verification  ?  " 

"  There  are  the  phenomena  of  spiritual  expe 
rience." 

44  A  sea  on  which  the  wind  blows,"  replied 
Roger.  "  I  cannot  there  watch  your  experiment, 
or  repeat  it  myself  under  like  conditions." 

44  Therefore  yon  suppress  those  phenomena  al 
together,"  said  Father  Roche,  smiling. 

44  No,  I  do  not  deny  them  ;  experience  is  not 
limited  to  sensation,  and  science  herself  raises  the 
questions  which  she  cannot  answer.  But,  within 
her  province,  verification  justifies  induction  and 
furnishes  a  unit  of  certainty.  In  that  very  tu 
mult  of  opinion  and  change,  with  which  men 
reproach  her,  goes  on,  as  in  the  alembic  of  the 
chemist,  a  constant  precipitation  which  increases 
her  capital.  Without,  there  is  inference,  but  no 
verification  ;  motion,  but  no  progress.  The  ques 
tions  remain,  for  the  answers  never  emerge  from 
the  region  of  hypothesis.  It  is  the  wheel  of 
Ixion." 

Father  Roche  made  no  answer,  though  he  did 

18 


274  BUT  YET  A  WOMAN. 

not  have  the  air  of  one  who  was  silenced.  He 
walked  slowly,  with  his  hands  behind  his  back 
and  his  eyes  on  the  ground.  They  were  close  to 
the  inn  when,  as  if  there  had  not  been  an  inter 
val  of  five  minutes'  silence,  he  said,  quietly,  "  You 
were  speaking  of  religion.  Philosophy  is  not  re 
ligion." 

Roger  thought  of  Re*ne*e,  at  this  reply. 

His  curiosity  was  excited  by  the  recollection  of 
the  circumstances  under  which  he  had  first  seen 
his  companion.  He  was  not,  therefore,  surprised 
to  hear  him  inquire  for  Madame  Milevski,  though 
he  was  not  a  little  astonished  to  hear  that  the  lat 
ter  was  walking  in  the  Alhambra. 

"  Since  we  are  seeking  the  same  person,  with 
your  permission  I  will  accompany  you,"  said 
Roger.  The  priest  bowed,  and  they  followed  to 
gether  the  path  already  taken  fry  Stephanie.  It 
was  the  voice  of  Father  Roche  in  the  Court  of 
Myrtles  which  had  caused  her  to  start. 

Despite  the  emotion  with  which  she  had  antici 
pated  this  meeting  with  Roger,  her  interest  seemed 
altogether  absorbed  by  the  priest,  who,  on  the 
other  hand,  after  saluting  her  and  inquiring  after 
the  state  of  her  health,  addressed  himself  to  Soeur 
Marie.  Stephanie  began  to  speak  before  Roger 
had  time  to  address  her. 

"  You  were  very  kind  to  come  so  far,  M.  Lande, 
—  and  very  considerate.  M.  Michel  is  so  easily 
alarmed  for  others.'* 


BUT  YET  A   WOMAN.  276 

"  I  came  very  gladly.  After  danger  is  over,  it 
is  easy  to  smile  at  our  fears,  but  when  mademoi 
selle's  letter  reached  M.  Michel  "  — 

"  Yes,  I  know.  I  forbade  her  to  write.  I  knew 
it  would  alarm  him.  He  thinks  so  little  for  him 
self,  and  is  so  readily  made  anxious  about  others, 
He  was  your  real  patient  all  the  while." 

"  I  should  have  been  glad  to  have  rendered  you 
a  service,  madame,"  said  Roger.  "  In  coming  to 
Spain,  to  be  honest,  M.  Michel  did  not  enter  my 
thoughts." 

"  Do  you  regret  I  was  not  at  death's  door  ? " 
she  said,  with  a  smile. 

"  I  merely  wished  to  say — what  I  did,"  he  re 
plied,  a  little  haughtily,  "  that  to  have  assisted 
you  would  have  given  me  pleasure,  more  even  than 
to  have  pacified  the  alarm  of  M.  Michel."  Feeling 
is  contagious. 

"  Oh,  doubtless  you  were  entirely  disinterested," 
she  replied.  She  was  sorry  for  these  words,  even 
while  uttering  them. 

"  No,  I  was  not  wholly  disinterested.  I  had 
something  in  mind." 

She  stood  in  the  recess  looking  over  towards 
the  caves  of  the  gypsies  in  the  opposite  hill,  with 
out  appearing  in  the  least  to  understand  him, 
Her  reserve  piqued  him.  Certainly  she  knew 
what  he  meant.  Did  she  really  wish  to  make  a 
nun  of  Renee  ?  He  was  on  the  point  of  speak 
ing,  when  she  turned  abruptly  and  put  her  hand 
on  his  arm. 


276  BUT  YET  A  WOMAN. 

"  Do  you  really  wish  to  do  me  a  service  ?  " 

She  spoke  with  so  much  earnestness  that  she 
startled  him.  It  was  not  a  question,  but  a  prop 
osition. 

"  Go  back  to  Paris,"  she  said,  rapidly,  —  "  to 
morrow." 

The  thought  that  in  some  way  the  presence  of 
Father  Roche  concerned  Re*  ne'e  flashed  through 
his  mind,  but  it  was  only  a  flash.  Stephanie's 
eyes  were  full  upon  him.  Their  very  appeal  in 
spired  trust.  For  some  reason  which  he  could  not 
fathom,  she  seemed  to  be  throwing  herself  upon 
his  generosity. 

"  I  do  not  in  the  least  understand  you,  but  I 
will  go,"  he  said.  "  Only,  I  shall  see  Runee  be 
fore  going." 

" 1  shall  give  you  no  reason  but  a  woman's 
whim,"  she  said,  with  an  attempt  at  levity,  and 
not  noticing  his  last  words. 

" 1  have  asked  for  none."  He  did  not  know 
whether,  as  she  turned  away,  the  light  in  her 
eyes  signified  triumph  or  gratitude. 

"  Father,  will  you  give  me  your  arm,"  she  said 
to  the  priest ;  and  the  four  left  the  room. 

Father  Roche  had  not  seen  Madame  Milevski 
since  her  journey  to  Frohsdorf,  and  the  failure 
of  those  projects  in  which  he  also  had  taken  an 
active  part.  So  thoroughly  had  she  entered  into 
the  hopes  of  the  hour  that  he  was  not  prepared 


BUT  YET  A    WOMAN.  277 

to  find  her  indifferent  to  the  new  plans  which 
were  ever  forming  in  his  busy  brain.  But  he  be 
trayed  no  surprise.  In  the  interview  which  he 
had  with  her  that  afternoon,  his  chagrin  (for  he 
had  corne  expressly  from  Madrid  without  doubt 
ing  the  success  of  what  he  had  in  view)  was  not 
apparent.  He  was  very  skillful  in  adapting  him 
self  to  a  new  situation.  He  had  definite  pur 
poses,  but,  when  once  moulded,  he  never  allowed 
them  to  harden  beyond  the  point  of  readjustment. 
In  this  respect  he  possessed  a  quality  of  mind 
the  lack  of  which  has  brought  ruin  on  otherwise 
great  strategists ;  a  quality  which  enabled  him. 
not  only  to  seize  the  essential  and  disembarrass 
himself  of  all  those  trivialities  which  perplex  the 
action  and  obscure  the  judgment,  but  to  make  his 
often  devious  way  through  those  contingencies 
which  beset  the  wisest  plans,  and,  if  they  be  too 
rigidly  set,  destroy  them  altogether.  He  made 
vhat  was  to  have  been  a  communication  to  an 
associate,  a  confidence  to  a  friend  ;  and  although 
sincerity  had  dropped  out  of  this  confidence,  it 
was  none  the  less  a  tribute  to  the  good  faith  of  his 
listener.  He  consulted  her  judgment,  her  opinion 
of  men,  her  knowledge  of  the  world,  and  he  showed 
that  interest  in  herself  which  a  man  accustomed 
to  society  knows  so  well  how  to  offer  without  in 
trusion  or  indiscretion. 

Stephanie  was   not  blind  to  his  ways,  yet  she 
enjoyed  his  visit.     Much  that   gives   pleasure    is 


278  BUT  YET  A    WOMAN. 

only  that  exterior  with  which  intelligence  and 
good  breeding  disguise  the  unreal.  There  was  a 
refinement  in  this  intriguer,  a  fascination  in  this 
mixture  of  the  courtier  and  the  priest  who,  if  not 
so  honest  as  Father  Le  Blanc,  was  less  gross,  pre 
cisely  because  he  was  less  natural. 

"•  No  one  is  better  fitted  than  you  are,"  he  said 
to  Stephanie,  "  to  take  part  in  this  work  in  which 
I  am  engaged,  but  I  should  do  you  wrong  to  urge 
upon  you  a  course-you  are  not  inclined  to  follow. 
Few  of  those  who  labor  with  us  are  free  from 
motives  of  self-interest  and  ambition.  Some  seek 
position  and  favor,  some  are  happy  only  in  satis 
fying  the  spirit  of  adventure,  others  risk  their  for 
tunes  and  their  lives  through  their  pride  in  the 
hierarchy,  an  instinct  of  birth  and  caste.  They 
believe  they  have  renounced  self,  whereas  it  is 
encased  in  that  very  pride  to  which  they  sacrifice 
fortune.  But  towards  the  Divine  purpose,  all 
contribute.  He  who  will  not  ride  in  His  chariot, 
drags  it  in  chains." 

She  had  said  that  she  could  be  of  no  assistance 
to  him. 

"  It  were  possible  for  you  to  be  of  the  great 
est,"  he  replied.  "  Not  in  your  present  state  of 
mind,  but  in  one  to  which  I  would  lead  you." 

Stephanie  raised  her  eyes  and  looked  at  him. 

"  We  wish  above  all  to  be  happy.  Dees  he  who 
embraces  the  highest  cause,  for  what  it  brings,  at- 
tain  happiness  ?  No,  not  so  long  as  there  exists 


BUT  YET  A    WOMAN.  279 

in  the  motive  which  animates  him  the  slightest 
alloy  of  selfishness.  In  the  pure  gold  of  God's 
furnace  there  is  no  trace  of  it.  The  fruifc  of  hap 
piness  comes  on!y  of  that  which  dies  to  itself.  I 
have  seen  those  who  in  disappointment  and  mis 
fortune  have  entered  the  path  of  sacrifice  and  de 
votion  to  some  great  principle,  when  in  the  very 
desire  to  forget  self,  selfishness  was  supreme.  Set 
happiness  before  you  as  an  end,  no  matter  in 
what  guise  of  wealth,  or  fame,  or  oblivion  even, 
—  you  will  not  attain  it.  Renounce  it,  seek  the 
pleasure  of  God,  and  that  instant  is  the  birth  of 
your  own.  But  I  have  seen  men  seek  the  pleas 
ure  of  God  as  they  seek  that  of  kings." 

"  It  seems  I  am  very  transparent,"  said  Ste*- 
phanie. 

Had  not  Father  Roche,  during  all  his  life-time, 
analyzed  the  heart  of  woman  ?  Had  she  not  her 
self  bared  the  springs  of  life  to  the  eye  of  his 
confessional?  How  many  interests  are  there  to 
snare  the  soul  of  a  man  !  But  with  woman,  —  he 
had  only  to  look  at  this  one  in  her  youth,  her 
beauty,  to  put  his  finger  on  the  hurt. 

"  Pardon  me,"  he  said.  And  then,  after  a 
while,  "  Can  you  not  forget  the  man  in  the  priest? 
To  the  one,  confession  may  outrage  pride  and  en 
danger  self-respect,  but  to  the  other  "  — 

"  They  are  never  separate,  father." 

"  Seek  God,  then,"  he  answered,  gently. 

"Do   you  go  to  Frohsdorf?"  she  asked,  after 


280  BUT  YET  A    WOMAN. 

another  pause.  Yes,  he  was  going,  and  they  began 
to  talk  of  those  whom  she  knew  there,  the  ladies- 
in-waiting  of  the  queen,  as  she  was  called. 

When  he  went  away,  she  descended  the  stairs 
with  him.  In  the  garden  it  was  already  dark. 
Coming  from  the  lighted  room,  the  warm  air,  the 
perfume  of  flowers,  and,  above  all,  the  mysterious 
potency  of  night,  overpowered  her.  They  filled 
her  senses  and  swept  her  away  as  in  a  current. 

"  You  are  still  weak  ;  you  must  go  no  farther," 
said  Father  Roche.  She  stopped,  leaning  upon 
one  of  the  trees.  He  would  have  supported  her, 
but  she  recovered  herself,  and  with  one  of  those 
impulses  which  sometimes  broke  down  her  re 
serve,  she  said  :  — 

"  What  you  said  to  me  is  true.  Pray  for  me, 
and  remember,  even  in  the  death  of  the  body,  the 
heart  stops  last." 

Long  after  she  had  gone,  Father  Roche  stood 
meditatively  in  the  place  whence  she  had  vanished, 
then  walked  slowly  down  the  hill  under  the  lofty 
trees,  and  disappeared  in  the  darkness  as  he  came. 
He  never  saw  her  but  once  again. 


BUT  YET  A    WOMAN.  281 


XIX. 

ANTONIO  had  evidently  taken  a  great  fancy  to 
Re*nee.  His  natural  antipathy  to  all  exertion 
vanished  at  the  sound  of  her  voice.  He  accom 
panied  her  with  the  solemn  dignity  of  a  mastiff 
guarding  a  treasure,  consenting  even  to  walk  in 
the  sun  when  she  led  the  way.  Lizette  had  dubbed 
him  u  Monsieur  Fange  tutelaire."  Mine  host  of  the 
Siete  Snelos,  who  seemed  Antonio's  especial  friend, 
evidently  knew  more  than  he  cared  to  tell,  for  on 
one  occasion,  when  Lizette  was  making  fun  of  his 
friend,  he  explained  that  Antonio  had  once  a 
daughter  of  ReneVs  age ;  but,  to  Lizette's  ques 
tion  what  had  become  of  her,  he  answered  only, 
"  Eso  va  largo  "  (that 's  a  long  story). 

"  By  the  porch  of  the  cathedral 
I  dare  not  pass  to-day  ; 

I  see  ray  mother's  face, 

Tears  fall  apace  ; 
I  pass  some  other  way." 

Re'ne'e  wished  to  buy  a  fan,  that  "  second 
tongue"  of  the  Andalusian,  and  had  set  out  with 
Antonio,  on  the  morning  of  Father  Roche's  visit, 
to  purchase  one.  It  was  her  second  search  after 
that  ideal  which  always  haunts  the  mind  of  tha 


282  BUT  YET  A    WOMAN. 

feminine  shopper,  the  first  having  proved  fruit 
less. 

Did  the  sefiorita  desire  one  of  sandal-wood  ? 
Here  was  a  marvel,  with  rice  paper  from  Japan, 
enlivened  with  spangles.  Or  did  she  prefer  ivory, 
delicately  carved  ?  Ah,  here  now  was  the  para 
gon  of  i'ans!  of  tortoise-shell,  painted  in  water- 
colors,  with  gold  mountings  of  filagree  work. 

But  no.  the  senorita  was  not  easily  satisfied, 
and  abandoned  the  quest  for  another  day.  In  the 
mean  time  Antonio  had  not  been  idle.  Had  one 
been  able  to  look  in  upon  him  at  night  when  the 
rest  of  the  household  were  asleep,  he  might  have 
been  seen  taking  from  a  small  black  box,  con 
taining  apparently  other  treasures,  an  object  which 
he  handled  with  reverence.  It  was  a  long  time 
before  he  closed  the  box,  but,  when  he  did  so,  he 
had  not  replaced  what  he  took  from  it.  It  was 
a  small  fan  of  exquisite  workmanship  in  mother- 
of-pearl,  covered  with  vellum  on  which  was  painted 
a  landscape  which  might  have  been  a  scene  from 
the  isle  of  Cythera  or  the  gardens  of  Calypso. 

The  next  day  he  took  it  to  the  bazaar,  and  re 
quested  that,  when  Rdne*e  came  again,  it  should 
be  shown  her. 

"  Not  at  first,"  he  said,  significantly.  "  Show 
it  last  of  all." 

"  Jesus !  que  lindeza  !  "  exclaimed  the  shop 
keeper.  "  It  is  worth  at  least  a  hundred  pese 
tas." 


BUT  YET  A    WOMAN.  283 

•<  Ask  what  you  will,"  said  Antonio. 

"  I  will  give  you  that  myself,"  replied  the  dealer, 
examining  it. 

"  No,  it  is  for  the  senorita." 

"  And  how  much  do  you  give  me?  " 

"  At  a  hundred  pesetas,  five,"  replied  Antonio. 

"  It  is  not  much,  but  to  oblige  yoji  "  —  and, 
folding  the  fan,  he  found  for  it  a  case  of  scented 
leather.  "  With  the  case,  ten  pesetas,"  he  said, 
holding  it  out  in  his  hand. 

"  Corriente,"  said  Antonio. 

This  time,  the  extravagant  praises  with  which 
the  "  most  beautiful  thing  in  all  Andalusia  "  was 
produced  were  not  belied  by  the  dainty  fan  as  it 
was  drawn  from  its  leathern  case. 

Antonio's  eyes  shone  with  pleasure  at  Re*neVs 
rapture.  He  took  his  pesetas  when  her  back  was 
turned,  but  it  was  the  full  hundred  that  he  dropped 
in  the  box  under  the  plaster  Virgin  of  the  Plaza 
de  Vivarambla. 

"  Do  you  give  alms  to  the  Church,  Antonio  ?  " 
asked  Renee,  in  surprise.  Antonio  passed  for  a 
heretic ;  some  even  said  that  he  was  a  Jew. 

"A  cuarto  for  a  blessing  on  my  lottery  ticket." 

Rende  looked  at  him  wonderingly.  Did  he 
really  thus  buy  the  blessing  of  Heaven  on  his 
gambling  venture  ?  Or  was  he  more  devout  than 
his  detractors  would  have  him  ?  She  inclined  to 
believe  the  latter. 

On  the  way  home  she  could  not  refrain  from 


284  BUT  YET  A  WOMAN. 

examining  again  her  purchase.  She  drew  it  from 
its  hiding-place,  and  spread  it  wide  open. 

"  We  saw  nothing  like  it  before.  Antonio.  It 
is  a  gem,  so  strong,  and  yet  so  delicate."  She 
turned  it  over,  and  held  it  out  at  arm's  length. 
"  The  case  is  certainly  a  new  one,  but  the  fan 
looks  old,"^he  said.  "  See !  is  it  not  worn  a  little 
on  the  folds  ?  "  and  she  held  it  up. 

44  Yes,  senorita.  They  do  not  make  such  fans 
nowadays." 

"  I  like  it  the  better  for  that.  It  must  have 
belonged  to  some  one,  I  wish  I  knew  to  whom. 
It  is  smaller  than  most,  —  is  it  not,  Antonio?  " 

44  A  little,  senorita." 

"  Is  it  Spanish  ?  The  painting  looks  French. 
How  fresh  the  colors  are  !  " 

44  Spanish,  senorita." 

4*  I  shall  always  wonder  whose  hand  once  held 
it,  and  believe  that  it  has  a  history.  Why  will 
you  not  invent  one,  Antonio?  I  will  tell  it  to 
its  admirers  in  Paris." 

She  laughed,  —  a  silvery  little  laugh,  Antonio 
looked  so  perplexed.  It  was  wicked  to  tease  him, 
that  good  old  Antonio ! 

*4  Do  you  never  grow  tired  of  your  life,  An- 
ton'o  ?  "  asked  Rcnde,  at  the  fountain  where  she 
lingered  to  rest  and  to  drink  some  of  the  cool 
water.  "  I  should  think  you  would,  going  the 
same  round  and  showing  the  same  things  over 
and  over  to  so  many." 


BUT   YET  A   WOMAN.  285 

"  First  of  all,  one  must  eat,"  said  Antonio.  It 
embarrassed  him  when  any  one  spoke  of  himself. 

"  I  suppose  you  have  very  little  love  for  us 
French,  who  have  done  you  so  much  injury,"  she 
continued,  looking  down  into  the  well.  She  little 
thought  what  chords  she  was  touching.  "  Soult 
was  a  monster  !"  she  added,  energetically. 

When  they  reached  the  inn,  Lizette  was  at  the 
door. 

"  I  have  bought  the  loveliest  fan,  Lizette,"  said 
Rende.  "  I  am  going  to  show  it  to  my  aunt." 

"  Madame  is  asleep,  mademoiselle,"  said  Lizette. 
"  She  has  been  taking  a  walk  "  — 

"  A  walk  !  What  a  surprise  !  When  did  she 
go?" 

"  This  morning,  and  she  took  her  breakfast 
here." 

"I  never  once  thought  of  it,  or  I  should  not 
have  gone  out.  Let  me  know  when  she  wakes, 
Lizette.  I  am  going  to  dress  for  dinner." 

"  M.  Lande  has  been  here,  mademoiselle,"  said 
Lizette. 

"  Ah,"  said  Re*ne*e,  nonchalantly.    "  I  was  out." 

"  He  wished  to  know  where  you  had  gone.  He 
returns  to  Paris  to-morrow." 

ReneVs  heart  gave  a  bound.  "  What  sur 
prises  !  "  she  said.  She  thought  Lizette  was  look 
ing  at  her.  She  was  not  in  the  least  afraid  of 
her,  and  had  no  fault  to  find  with  her ;  still,  sh« 
never  wholly  liked  her. 


BUT  YET  A  WOMAN. 

She  went  to  her  room,  and  began  her  toilette. 
From  being  perfectly  happy,  she  had  suddenly 
become  nervous,  and  she  knew  it.  She  took  out 
her  fan  again,  but  it  did  not  interest  her.  There 
were  some  things  she  was  trying  not  to  think  of. 
She  was  a  very  orderly  little  being,  and  usually 
dressed  very  leisurely  ;  but  she  put  on  her  dinner 
dress  hurriedly,  and  slipped  the  yellow  Christ 
Soeur  Ursule  had  given  her  in  her  bosom.  She 
had  not  worn  it  for  days. 

When  she  came  down  again,  Soenr  Marie  said 
Stephanie  would  dine  in  her  chamber;  she  was 
tired  after  her  walk.  Rdnee  said  she  would  go  to 
her. 

"  Madame  has  a  visitor,"  replied  Soeur  Marie. 

Who?  A  priest,  from  Paris.  Renee  remem 
bered  to  have  seen  him  sitting  outside  the  door 
when  she  returned  with  Antonio.  When  dinner 
was  served  he  had  not  gone,  and  Renee  ate  hers 
alone,  Lizette  waiting  upon  her.  After  it  was 
finished,  she  wandered  out  into  the  gallery  in  tlm 
rear  of  the  house  where  Soeur  Marie  was  reading. 
She  did  not  wish  to  be  alone. 

For  a  long  time  she  sat  quietly  by  the  sister's 
side,  watching  a  little  fountain  whose  water,  after 
falling  noisily  into  an  upper  shallow  basin,  dripped 
softly  into  a  black  pool  below. 

Presently  Antonio  brought  a  cup  of  chocolate, 
which  she  sipped  silently  while  Soeur  Marie  read 
on  in  her  book. 


BUT  YET  A  WOMAN.  287 

She  wanted  to  see  Stephanie,  to  talk  with  some 
one,  to  divert  herself,  but  Father  Roche  was  still 
there.  The  minutes  slipped  away,  and  the  sun 
crept  slowly  towards  the  white  horizon  lines  of 
the  mountains.  lu  an  hour  only  the  snow-peak  of 
the  Mulahacen  would  emerge  from  the  shadows, 
and  mine  host  would  then  light  the  lamps  that 
hung  in  the  gallery. 

"  Read  aloud  to  me,  sister,  please,"  said  Re  ne'e. 

"  '  And  the  three  Marys  brought  precious  spices 
to  anoint  our  Lord.  Take  good  heed  now,  my 
dear  sisters  :  these  three  Marys  denote  three  bit 
ternesses,  as  the  name  signifieth.  The  first  bit 
terness  is  remorse  and  making  amends  for  sin,  and 
this  is  the  first  Mary,  Mary  Magdalene,  for  she  in 
great  bitterness  of  heart  left  off  her  sins  and  turned 
to  our  Lord.  The  second  bitterness  is  in  wrestling 
and  struggling  against  temptation,  and  this  is  that 
other  Mary,  the  mother  of  Jacob,  which  meaneth 
wrestling.  This  wrestling  is  very  bitter  to  many 
who  are  well  advanced  in  the  way  to  heaven,  for 
they  still  waver  in  temptation.  And  the  third 
bitterness  consists  in  longing  for  heaven  and  wear 
iness  of  this  world,  when  one  is  of  such  piety  that 
his  heart  is  at  rest  with  the  war  of  vice,  and  is 
as  it  were  in  the  gates  of  heaven,  where  all  worldly 
tilings  seem  bitter  to  him.  And  this  bitterness 
is  to  be  understood  by  the  third  Mary,  Mary  Sa 
lome,  which  signifieth  peace.' " 


288  BUT  YET  A    WOMAN. 

Soeur  Marie  bent  her  head  over  her  book  as 
she  read.  All  her  thoughts  were  there  ;  one  might 
know  from  the  tones  of  her  voice  that,  though  she 
read  aloud,  she  was  reading  to  herself.  For  her 
it  was  as  if  there  were  no  fountain  splashing 
cheerily  in  the  patio,  or  any  snow  dyed  with  sun 
set  colors  on  the  mountains.  Re*ne"e  heard  the 
words,  but  her  thoughts  struggled  up  and  min 
gled  with  their  meanings  till  the  trickling  waters 
of  the  fountain  and  the  reader's  voice  blended  in 
a  confused  murmur. 

"  c  But  now  observe  here,  my  dear  sisters,  how 
after  bitterness  cometh  sweetness.  Bitterness 
buyeth  it,  for,  as  the  Gospel  saith,  these  three 
Marys  brought  sweet-smelling  spices  to  anoint  our 
Lord.  By  spices,  which  are  sweet,  is  to  be  under 
stood  the  sweetness  of  a  devout  heart.  These 
three  Marys  buy  it,  that  is,  through  bitterness  we 
arrive  at  sweetness.  So  saith  God's  dear  spouse, 
I  will  go  to  the  hill  of  frankincense  by  the  moun 
tain  of  myrrh.  Observe  :  which  is  the  way  to 
the  sweetness  of  frankincense?  By  the  myrrh 
of  bitterness'  "  — 

kt  It  is  growing  too  dark,  it  pains  my  eyes,"  said 
Soeur  Marie  at  length,  closing  her  book.  "I  will 
go  and  see  whether  madame  is  alone." 

Renee  sat  for  a  while  with  her  hands  in  her 
lap,  then  she  took  the  cross  from  her  bosom ;  its 


BUT  YET  A    WOMAN.  289 

weight  seemed  to  oppress  her.  By  and  by  she  rose 
and  stepped  out  from  under  the  gallery  into  the 
patio. 

Just  beyond  the  fountain,  beneath  a  cluster  of 
bays,  a  little  path  led  round  to  the  ruined  tower. 
She  followed  it  mechanically  until  she  came  to  the 
loose  stones  which,  fallen  from  above,  and  now 
overgrown  with  moss  and  creepers,  formed  so 
many  rough-hewn  seats  at  the  base  of  the  wall. 
She  had  been  used  to  come  here  in  the  early  days 
of  Stephanie's  sickness,  when  she  longed  for  air 
and  space,  yet  did  not  dare  to  go  far  from  her 
chamber. 

How  long  she  sat  there  she  could  not  have  told, 
if  indeed  she  knew  she  was  there  at  all  till  his 
footsteps  roused  her.  Had  she  not  listened  for 
them  all  that  afternoon  ?  And  yet  now,  after  the 
first  leap  of  her  heart,  she  was  perfectly  calm. 
When  they  stopped  close  beside  her  she  looked 
up  into  Roger's  face. 

It  was  the  last  of  the  twilight,  yet  at  that  dis 
tance  one  could  see  distinctly.  She  was  sitting 
on  a  fragment  of  stone,  with  the  cross  of  Soaur 
Ursule  in  her  hands.  Roger  saw  its  gilt  image, 
which  still  reflected  the  faint  light.  Her  eyes 
looked  into  his  without  shrinking,  —  they  were 
wet  with  tears  that  had  not  fallen. 

"  Re  ne'e,  there  is  nothing  in  all  this  wide  world 
which  can  keep  you  from  me,  —  if  you  love  me.'* 

She  did  not  answer ;  he  bent  over  and  took  her 
19 


290  BUT  YET  A    WOMAN. 

hand.  She  did  not  resist  him ;  then  he  took  her 
in  his  arms.  She  lay  there  quietly,  her  eyes 
closed.  He  drew  her  closer  to  him  and  kissed  her 
lips.  She  opened  her  eyes  and  smiled. 

Then  suddenly,  springing  to  her  feet,  her  hand 
still  in  his,  she  cried,  — 

44  Kneel  down  and  pray  with  me !  " 


BUT  YET  A  WOMAN.  291 


XX. 

WHEN  Roger  left  the  tavern  of  the  Siete  Suelos 
that  evening  he  would  have  given  his  purse  to  a 
bandit,  and  said,  "  Thank  you ! "  He  had  lin 
gered  for  a  while  about  the  place,  with  the  reluc 
tance  of  a  true  lover.  Philosophy  and  reason, 
what  had  they  to  do  with  instinct  and  sentiment  1 

He  would  have  returned  by  that  path  under  the 
rose  bays,  to  that  place  at  the  thought  of  which 
every  other  forsook  him,  had  not  mine  host  inter 
cepted  him  with  many  bows  and  apologies. 

"  Did  the  senor  go  to  Malaga  the  next  morn 
ing  ?  He  had  some  business  there.  That  rascal 
Villegas  !  who  failed  to  send  him  his  janqueta  — 
white  bait  —  and  who  owed  him  sixty  duros.  The 
diligence  was  full,  every  place  was  taken.  What 
luck  !  it  burns  the  blood  !  Would  the  senor  per 
mit  his  unworthy  servant  to  occupy  the  seat  be~ 
side  him  ?  A  thousand  thanks  ;  he  threw  himself 
at  the  feet  of  the  senor  ;  all  that  he  possessed  was 
his." 

Mine  host,  who  took  tithes  from  travelers,  under 
the  name  of  Matias,  proved  no  disagreeable  com 
panion  for  the  twelve  hours'  ride.  He  had  been 
a  muleteer  before  the  days  of  his  prosperity,  and 


292  BUT  YET  A   WOMAN. 

had  slept  on  his  mule-cloth  in  every  market-place 
in  Andalusia.  A  cigar  opened  the  heart  of  this 
Spanish  Gascon,  full  of  childish  good-humor,  vi 
vacity,  boasting,  credulity,  and  wit.  The  sun 
under  which  he  lived,  and  which  luid  made  his 
skin  into  a  tawny  leather,  had  also  volatilized  his 
nature  and  painted  his  apparel.  He  shone  in 
velvet  and  buttons  as  he  stepped  into  the  calesa. 
He  had  a  story  for  every  turn  in  the  road,  and  at 
every  venta  a  jest  for  its  landlord,  a  compliment 
for  its  maid,  and  a  tip  for  its  hostler. 

From  some  of  Matias'  adventures,  related  in 
loco,  Roger  inferred  that  he  had  once  relieved 
travelers  of  their  duros  in  a  less  legitimate  fashion 
than  at  present.  This  was,  however,  an  unwor 
thy  suspicion.  The  contrabandista  is  no  footpad. 
It  is  the  exciseman  that  is  the  robber  and  defrauds 
the  people.  The  smuggler  is  at  the  worst  but  a 
venial  sinner  whom  the  padre  absolves  almost  as 
readily  as  the  bright  eyes  for  whom  he  brings  his 
calico  or  the  dandy  whom  he  keeps  in  cigars. 

From  Alhama,  where  the  horses  were  baited, 
they  followed  the  bed  of  the  Marchan,  white  with 
rage  over  the  obstacles  in  its  rocky  descent;  on 
the  ledges  above  clung  the  houses,  embowered  in 
vines  and  gardens,  making  more  striking  the 
ragged  rent  swept  by  the  torrent  and  the  barren 
desolation  of  the  mountains.  As  they  passed  over 
a  bridge  where  the  noise  of  the  waters  drowned  the 
Toice,  Matfas  touched  his  companion  with  a  sig- 


BUT   YET  A    WOMAN.  293 

nificant  look  ;  and  afterwards,  — divested  of  many 
exclamations  as  well  as  gestures,  with  which  he 
garnished  his  narratives,  —  this  is  the  story,  in 
substance,  which  he  told  as  they  climbed  the  pass. 

He  and  Antonio  were  at  Ronda.  They  were 
associates  in  business.  Those  were  good  days, 
though  pocket  and  stomach  were  often  both 
empty.  They  lived  at  Granada,  he  and  Anto 
nio,  with  the  latter 's  daughter.  It  was  said  her 
mother  was  a  gypsy  who  had  paid  with  her  life 
for  this  liaison  with  one  outside  of  her  tribe.  God 
only  knew,  —  one  might  as  well  try  to  open  the 
teeth  of  a  donkey  as  the  mouth  of  Antonio.  At 
all  events,  it  was  not  unlikely.  Felisa  was  a  true 
gitana;  one  could  more  easily  hold  water  in  the 
hand  than  control  her.  She  was  like  a  flame, 
blown  with  the  wind,  yet  which  no  man  could 
handle.  Then,  again,  she  would  be  gentle  as  a 
dove.  Ah !  if  the  senor  could  have  seen  her ! 
Eyes  liquid  as  an  oriental  sapphire  and  limpid  as 
the  pool  of  los  Algibes.  He,  Matias,  bending  over 
the  well,  once  threw  down  a  stone,  and  the  flashing 
ripples  had  made  his  head  swim.  Well,  it  was 
the  same  when  one  looked  into  the  eyes  of  Felisa. 

Of  course  she  had  lovers.  Every  one  who  gave 
her  a  look  gave  his  heart  with  it ;  but  she  would 
have  none  of  them.  Not  one  ever  touched  her 
heart.  He  thought  then  she  had  none.  She  was 
wild  and  gay  as  a  bird,  and  sang  on  every  tree. 
Many  a  one  was  snared  at  the  sight  of  her  face  at 


294  BUT  YET  A    WOMAN. 

the  grating.  On  the  street  she  would  lift  her 
brown  lashes  for  a  second,  and  shoot  a  glance  swift 
as  an  arrow,  —  it  was  the  work  of  a  second,  like 
the  flash  of  the  matador's  sword.  But  no  lover's 
hand  had  ever  reached  through  the  grating,  or 
lover's  foot  had  crossed  the  threshold.  She  left 
them  all  at  the  door,  as  she  took  off  her  red  rib 
bons  at  bed-time,  and  never  lost  a  second's  sleep 
for  the  sound  of  guitars  under  the  window. 

Antonio  was  so  proud  of  her  !  No  wonder.  If 
she  loved  any  one,  it  was  he.  He  was  her  lover. 
When  he  came  home  from  the  mountains  she  hung 
on  his  neck.  What  a  necklace  they  made,  those 
arms !  There  were  those  ready  to  be  strangled 
by  them.  She  had  always  kind  words  for  him 
then,  and  he  could  refuse  her  nothing.  He 
brought  her  little  red  shoes  from  Tangiers,  and 
stockings  of  open  lace  embroidery  from  Seville. 

"We  always  left  her  alone  when  we  were  off  on 
our  business  to  Ronda,  Gibraltar,  or  Malaga,"  said 
Matfas.  "  In  those  days  Antonio  was  young. 
To  molest  Felisa  would  be  to  try  the  edge  of  his 
knife,  which  he  could  handle  very  prettily.  I 
should  have  been  in  love  with  her  like  the  rest, 
only  I  was  twice  her  age.  She  treated  me  like  a 
brother.  Once  I  was  near  making  a  fool  of  my- 
gelf,  —  she  sat  on  the  floor  mending  the  fringe  of 
her  petticoat,  —  she  looked  at  me  and  laughed  till 
I  was  angry,  the  little  sorceress ! 

"  Well,  at  the  first  we  were  at  Cadiz.    We  went 


BUT   YET  A    WOMAN.  295 

fco  bring  some  silk  over  the  mountains.  But  our 
enterprise  failed,  the  coast-guards  were  on  the 
lookout,  so  we  returned  sooner  than  we  expected. 
Felisa  was  gay  as  a  lark.  I  noticed  it,  for  when 
we  were  unsuccessful,  she  was  sympathetic,  and 
consoled  us  with  promises  of  better  luck  the  next 
time.  But  this  time  she  asked  no  questions,  nor 
seemed  at  all  interested  in  our  undertaking  ;  only 
she  danced  about  like  a  madcap,  and  got  four 
reals  from  Antonio  to  buy  a  silver  pin  she  had 
seen  at  the  silversmith's,  to  fasten  her  mantilla. 
When  we  set  out  again,  to  try  our  venture  the 
second  time,  she  stood  in  the  doorway,  with  the 
mantilla  on  her  head,  her  hair  shining  smooth  on 
her  forehead,  where  it  was  fastened  at  each  tem 
ple  with  a  crimson  pink.  Antonio  asked  her 
where  she  was  going  in  all  her  fine  clothes,  —  she 
had  on  her  best,  —  but  she  only  laughed  and 
pouted  her  lips  at  him,  and  bade  him  mind  his 
mule  and  she  would  mind  the  geese.  Well,  we 
came  back  after  three  weeks.  It  was  evening, 
and  we  saw  Felisa's  light  when  we  turned  the 
corner.  It  happened  I  was  first,  so  I  entered  as 
usual,  without  knocking. 

**  Felisa  sat  on  a  bench  by  the  wall,  and  beside 
her  was  a  man.  He  was  dressed  in  the  Spanish 
fashion.  But  he  was  not  one  of  us,  the  gavacho! 
\  knew  by  the  cut  of  his  cloak  and  the  little 
mustache  which  turned  up  at  the  ends.  He  was 
one  of  your  countrymen,  senor.  Before  I  was  in- 


296  BUT  YET  A   WOMAN. 

side  the  door  he  was  on  his  feet,  and  before  1 
had  taken  a  step  Felisa  had  pushed  him  out  of 
the  back  door,  leading  into  a  sort  of  court-yard 
with  a  low  wall,  by  which  one  might  gain  the 
street  in  the  rear.  I  was  so  astonished  that  I 
stood  still  till  Antonio  behind  me  pushed  me  to 
one  side.  I  knew  by  his  face  he  had  seen  every 
thing.  But  he  said  nothing.  He  looked  at  Fe 
lisa,  who  stood  with  her  back  to  the  door  where 
the  Frenchman  had  gone,  —  she  was  confused  for 
a  moment,  —  then  he  went  out  to  look  after  the 
mules  in  the  yard.  I  knew  not  which  to  do,  to 
stay  or  to  follow  him,  till  he  had  shut  the  door,  — 
then  I  stayed.  Felisa  had  recovered  herself.  She 
plied  me  with  questions,  laughing  and  singing  as 
if  nothing  had  happened.  I  replied  the  best  way 
I  could,  not  daring  to  catch  her  eye.  She  began 
to  get  our  supper.  I  was  so  nervous  that  I  over 
threw  a  pile  of  oranges  on  the  table.  '  How  awk 
ward  you  are  ! '  she  said,  laughing  and  showing 
her  pretty  teeth,  white  as  almonds.  When  An 
tonio  returned  she  ran  up  to  him  and  kissed  him. 
But  he  said  not  a  word.  When  she  asked  ques 
tions  I  answered  them,  for  the  silence  was  terri 
ble.  It  must  have  been  the  devil  that  kept  up 
her  spirits  while  we  ate  supper.  She  chatted  with 
me  who  felt  like  a  dead  man  ;  told  me  about  the 
fair?  —  it  was  the  feast  of  St.  John,  —  and  how 
the  people  had  hissed  Miguel,  who  had  broken 
his  sword  on  a  bull  in  the  plaza. 


BUT  YET  A   WOMAN.  297 

"  When  supper  was  over  she  crossed  the  room 
to  where  Antonio  was  sitting  silent  in  the  corner, 
and  began  to  fondle  and  talk  to  him  as  she  used 
to  when  he  returned  from  the  mountains.  '  Had 
he  brought  her  anything  from  Cadiz  ?  '  I  knew 
what  he  had  in  his  sash,  but  when  he  took  it  out 
I  thought  it  was  his  knife.  It  was  a  fan,  and 
when  he  gave  it  to  her  he  looked  in  her  eyes  as 
one  looks  in  the  sun,  with  a  dazed  expression. 
But  she  was  gay  as  a  bird.  She  examined  the 
fan  minutely,  opening  and  shutting  it  rapidly. 
Jt  fluttered  in  her  hands  like  the  wings  of  a  mart 
let.  When  she  went  up  to  bed  she  kissed  him, 
paying  no  attention  to  his  silence  and  gravity.  I 
dreaded  to  have  her  go  and  leave  me  alone  with 
him.  For  a  while  I  could  not  open  my  throat, 
but  I  made  some  remarks  at  last  about  our  affairs, 
to  which  he  replied  by  a  shake  of  the  head,  a  nod, 
or  a  monosyllable.  He  never  moved  except  to 
roll  a  cigarette.  I  was  worn  with  fatigue,  and, 
rolling  my  cloak  into  a  pillow,  I  went  to  sleep  on 
the  wooden  seat. 

"  The  next  morning  it  was  just  the  same.  Fe- 
lisa  came  down  singing,  but  I  could  see  there  was 
wickedness  in  her  eyes.  The  humor  of  Antonio 
began  to  wear  upon  her.  She  went  after  break 
fast  over  to  the  door  leading  out  into  the  court 
yard,  but  it  was  locked.  She  looked  at  Antonio, 
who  sat  by  the  other,  with  a  laugh.  She  wore  a 
pink  in  her  corsage,  which  she  unfastened  and 


298  BUT  YET  A    WOMAN. 

threw  to  him  with  a  gesture  of  reconciliation. 
But  it  lay  on  the  floor  where  it  fell.  She  gazed 
at  him  for  a  moment  in  dismay.  Perhaps  his  re 
volt  astonished  her  who  had  led  him  always  like 
a  lamb.  I  saw  the  storm  coming  in  her  eyes. 
"•Have  your  own  way!'  she  exclaimed,  contempt 
uously,  dropping  all  her  airs  and  running  up  to 
her  room. 

"  All  this  would  wear  out  the  patience  of  a 
saint.  I  perspired  with  anxiety.  I  rushed  into 
the  street  to  breathe  and  see  the  sun.  Old  Raquel, 
who  sold  fruits  and  nuts,  was  on  the  corner.  She 
knew  everything  that  happened  in  Granada.  Fe- 
lisa  had  met  the  Frenchman  at  the  bazaar ;  she  had 
Seen  him  follow  her  down  the  Carrera  del  Darro. 
But  she  paid  no  attention.  Every  one  knew  Fe- 
lisa  was  no  sleeping  weasel.  This  was  some  weeks 
ago,  when  we  were  first  away.  After  that  she 
saw  them  together  often.  Pedro  Ximenez,  who 
brought  snow  from  the  mountains,  swore  to  her 
that  he  had  seen  them  together  beyond  the  ravine 
of  Los  Molinos.  Well,  then  she  began  to  watch. 
The  gavacho  came  to  the  house  several  times.  He 
lived  at  the  Leon  de  Oro  ;  she  had  seen  him  at 
the  cafe*  eating  ices. 

"  Well,  evening  came,  and  Antonio  had  not  left 
the  house.  I  began  to  be  alarmed.  So  I  went 
back  again  ;  but  the  lower  room  was  empty.  The 
pink  on  the  floor  made  me  start.  I  thought  it 
was  blood.  The  door  to  the  stairs  leading  to  Fe- 


BUT  YET  A    WOMAN.  299 

lisa's  chamber  was  open,  and  I  went  up  with  a 
fear  in  my  heart  that  kept  it  from  beating.  An 
tonio  was  there,  —  he  had  just  gone  up,  —  no  one 
else.  The  bird  had  flown.  My  tongue  was  loosed, 
I  felt  relieved,  for  Antonio's  manner  had  fright 
ened  me.  I  told  him  what  Raquel  had  said  to  me. 
It  was  clear  Felisa  had  gone  by  the  window  into 
the  court-yard,  and  escaped  by  the  little  door  into 
the  street.  I  was  for  going  here,  there,  every 
where  ;  but  Antonio  bade  me  to  follow  him.  He 
has  the  gift  of  second  sight,"  said  Matias,  with 
simplicity. 

"  He  went  straight  to  the  Leon  de  Oro.  The 
man  whom  we  described  had  been  gone  several 
hours.  No  one  could  tell  us  where,  but  he  had 
paid  his  account  and  had  left  orders  to  send  his 
trunk  to  Malaga.  That  gave  me  an  idea.  If 
Felisa  had  gone  with  him,  she  would  get  horses 
at  the  Venta  San  Rafael,  where  there  was  one  she 
always  rode.  She  could  ride  with  the  best  of  us. 
And  true  enough  !  Felisa  had  taken  two  horses, 
and  was  gone  about  three  hours. 

"  In  the  wink  of  an  eye  we  were  in  the  saddle, 
and  on  the  road  we  have  just  passed  over.  But 
luck  was  against  us.  It  was  the  rainy  season,  and 
the  river  was  swollen.  In  that  gorge  which  we 
passed,  the  bridge  was  gone.  The  water  boiled 
like  a  witch's  pot ;  no  horse  could  stand  in  it. 
We  were  obliged  to  retrace  our  steps  and  make 
a  long  circuit.  When  we  reached  the  venta  at 


300  BUT  YET  A  WOMAN. 

Alhama  it  was  three  hours  past  midnight ;  I  knew 
by  the  stars  on  the  top  of  the  Tejada.  Our  horses 
were  jaded,  and  we  stopped  to  exchange  them  for 
fresh  ones  and  to  make  inquiries.  I  struck  a  Hint 
at  the  door  of  the  stables,  and  the  first  thing  I  saw 
was  the  horse  of  Felisa.  It  was  for  this  we  had 
come,  but  now  my  heart  began  to  beat  again 
against  my  vest,  —  it  misgave  me  for  what  was 
to  happen.  '  Stay  where  you  are,'  said  Antonio, 
and  he  went  out  with  the  look  in  his  eye  which 
he  had  when  Felisa  threw  the  pink  at  him.  Two 
minutes  were  as  long  as  two  hours.  I  could  wait 
no  longer,  and  went  into  the  house.  Hut  I  had 
time  to  see  that  only  one  horse  stood  in  the  stable, 
—  Felisa's.  There  were  some  others,  —  sorry  nags 
fit  only  for  the  plaza,  —  which  had  never  eaten 
hay  in  the  stable  of  San  Rafael. 

"  While  I  was  waiting,  this  had  happened.  Fe 
lisa,  doubtless,  was  wakened  by  the  noise  which 
Antonio  had  made  at  the  door.  Every  one  was 
asleep.  God  knows  what  the  poor  little  one 
thought  when  she  opened  her  eyes  and  found  her 
self  alone !  The  villainous  rascal  had  left  her  ; 
he  had  gotten  up  in  the  night  and  stolen  off  like 
a  thief,  —  and  she  lying  there  asleep  !  Poor  Fe 
lisa  !  When  I  saw  her  she  stood  in  the  middle 
of  the  room,  her  face  looking  as  though  she  had  a 
knife  in  her  heart.  She  had  on  only  her  red  pet 
ticoat  and  her  black  mantilla  wrapped  about  her 
bosom  and  shoulders.  Mother  of  God !  the  sight 


BUT  YET  A   WOMAN.  301 

wrung  my  heart,  which  had  not  a  tear  in  it  for 
twenty  years.  I  had  no  anger  but  for  the  wretch 
who  was  fleeing  like  a  coward  over  the  mountains. 
This  was  the  thought,  too,  of  Antonio.  He  stood 
trembling,  with  his  eyes  full  of  pity.  All  this 
takes  time  to  tell,  but  it  was  the  affair  of  a  min 
ute.  While  I  looked,  Felisa  went  up  jto  him  as 
she  used  to  when  we  were  back  from  an  expedi 
tion.  She  drew  from  the  pocket  of  her  petticoat 
the  fan  he  had  brought  her  from  Cadiz,  making 
believe  to  put  it  in  his  sash,  and  looking  all  the 
while  in  his  eyes.  He  put  out  his  hands,  —  when 
she  made  a  spring  backwards  out  of  their  reach. 
It  was  all  over,  before  one  could  move  a  step.  I 
was  watching  the  handle  of  his  knife,  which  pro 
truded  above  his  sash.  I  was  afraid,  in  a  moment 
of  anger,  lie  would  use  it.  I  saw  her  fingers  about 
it,  and  then  —  she  was  lying  on  the  floor  with  the 
blade  in  her  heart.  She  knew  the  blow,  —  a  down 
stroke  between  the  shoulders,"  said  Matfas,  with 
an  explanatory  gesture. 

"  Pardon,  seiior,  permit  me  to  use  your  fire." 
His  cigar  had  gone  out  while  he  was  telling  his 
story. 

"  And  the  —  other  ?  "  asked  Roger,  who  was 
profoundly  affected. 

"  Never,"  replied  Matfas,  between  his  teeth, 
"  He  escaped  us." 

He  was  less  talkative  during  that  part  of  the 
ride  which  remained.  The  memories  which  he 


302  BUT   YET  A  WOMAN. 

had  so  vividly  revived  checked  the  flow  of  his 
spirits.  As  for  Roger,  this  story,  related  in  the 
dreary  defile,  haunted  him.  He  went  over  it  again 
and  again,  walking  the  deck  of  the  steamer  and 
dozing  in  the  compartment  of  his  carriage  during 
the  long  night  ride  to  Paris  ;  till,  once  more  in  the 
press  of  his  duties,  it  faded  from  his  mind  and 
Antonio  was  forgotten. 


BUT  YET  A    WOMAN.  303 


XXT. 

BEFORE  the  fireplace  of  the  Rue  du  Bac,  one 
autumn  evening,  were  gathered  three  men  who 
had  reached  the  same  stage  as  the  fire  which  il 
lumined  their  faces.  It  no  longer  blazed  fiercely. 
There  were  no  more  any  showers  of  sparks,  or  hot, 
leaping  flames ;  but  only  a  red  glow,  shining  with 
out  a  flicker,  and  changing  slowly  into  ashes  white 
as  the  hair  of  those  beside  it. 

"  I  received  a  visit  to  day,  M.  Lande,  from  your 
son,"  said  M.  Michel. 

"  The  good  boy  ! "  said  M.  Lande,  out  of  his 
dark  corner.  "  I  can  never  be  too  grateful  to 
that  old  gourmand  whose  gout  first  led  him  to 
Beauvais,  and  who  was  the  means  of  making  him 
known  to  yon." 

"  Ah,  you  think  so  !  Well,  listen.  To-day,  I 
repeat,  he  makes  me  a  visit.  If  he  wished  to 
borrow  of  me  a  thousand  francs  at  a  good  inter 
est,  that  would  not  surprise  me  ;  or  a  book  which 
I  value,  but  which  he  will  replace  if  he  tear  so 
much  as  a  single  leaf.  That  happens  every  day 
But  not  a  bit  of  it !  He  says  simply,  '  Monsieur, 
you  have  a  niece,  —  give  her  to  me  ! '  " 

"  God  be  praised  !  "  exclaimed  M.  Lande.  "  Ah, 
my  good  friend  "  — 


304  BUT  YET  A   WOMAN. 

"  Your  good  friend  !  "  interrupted  M.  Michel, 
testily  ;  "  to  what  use  will  you  put  him,  —  your 
good  friend  ?  You  are  a  pair,  you  two." 

M.  Lande,  unprepared  for  such  an  explosion, 
was  half  persuaded  that  it  was  serious. 

"  And  Mademoiselle  Re'ne'e,  what "—  he  begar 
to  say. 

"  Mademoiselle  Rene'e  !  Parbleu  !  c'est  tin  fait 
accompli.  It  is  not  a  request  but  a  confession 
that  he  makes,  your  good  boy." 

"  To  grant  absolution  is  a  privilege,  —  is  it 
not,"  said  M.  Lande,  appealing  to  Father  Le 
Blanc. 

"  When  it  is  not  a  necessity,"  interposed  M. 
Michel.  "  Do  you  think  I  did  not  see  the  point 
of  the  rapier  under  the  robe  of  the  penitent? 
4  Monsieur,  the  hand  of  your  niece,  if  you  please,' 
which,  being  translated,  is,  4  Come,  old  miser,  she 
is  mine  ;  surrender!  ' 

Father  Le  Blanc  laughed  aloud. 

"  And  you  also  laugh,  you  who  are  at  the  bot 
tom  of  this  marriage  !  " 

"  I  ?  a  marriage  ?  "  exclaimed  Father  Le  Blanc. 
"  I  do  not  make  them  ;  I  bless  them." 

"  That  is  to  say,  you  make  the  best  of  them, 
as  I  do.  When  the  rains  have  fallen  on  the  Up 
per  Nile,  one  cannot  dam  the  river  at  Cairo." 

«  Then  you  consent,"  said  M.  Lande,  taking 
heart. 

"  Consent !  No,  I  do  not  consent ;  I  am  pil 
laged ! " 


BUT   YET  A   WOMAN.  305 

M.  Lande  said  nothing,  from  pure  satisfaction. 
He  had  waited  so  long  for  the  realization  of 
dreams  that,  now  one  had  come  true,  happiness 
stifled  him,  and  he  drugged  it  with  silence  lest  it 
should  render  him  beside  himself.  To  the  demon 
of  disappointment  and  frustration  which  had  so 
long  mocked  him  without  subduing  him,  he  kept 
repeating  softly,  "  I  knew  it ;  I  told  you  so." 

"When  do  they  return  ?"  asked  Father  Le 
Blanc,  breaking  the  silence.  He  was  thinking 
neither  of  Roger  nor  of  Renee. 

"  This  week.  And  do  you  know  what  I  have 
done,  old  fool  that  I  am  !  Come  and  see." 

He  lighted  a  candle  and  led  the  way  through 
the  library  into  the  vestibule,  where  he  opened  a 
door,  and,  holding  the  light  above  his  head,  mo 
tioned  them  to  enter.  The  room  was  a  boudoir, 
recently  furnished.  One  could  see  the  new  lustre 
of  pearl-gray  satin,  and,  between  the  curtains  of 
a  door  beyond,  a  bed  white  as  innocence. 

"  I  have  made  a  nest  for  a  bird  that  will  not 
stay  in  it,"  said  M.  Michel. 

;4And  the  convent,"  said  Father  Le  Blanc; 
"  had  you  forgotten  that  ?" 

"  No,  I  remembered  it.  But  when  I  close  the 
door,  the  bird  flies  out  of  the  window,"  he  replied, 
leading  the  way  back  to  the  fire,  and  replacing 
the  candle  on  the  mantel. 

"  Put  it  out,"  suggested  Father  Le  Blanc  ;  "it 
is  more  pleasant.  You  remember,"  he  continued, 

flO 


306  BUT  YET  A    WOMAN. 

when  the  light  was  extinguished,  "  I  warned  you 
I  even  prophesied." 

44  Do  you  offer  that  as  a  consolation  ?  Well, 
at  least  I  am  more  favored  than  Job,  who  had 
three  friends,  while  I  have  but  two." 

44  Come,  come  !  "  said  Father  Le  Blanc,  "  be 
honest  with  us.  Is  there  nothing  which  condones 
this  robbery  ?  Have  you  no  —  no  recollections 
—  which  "  — 

He  hesitated,  shading  his  eyes  with  his  large 
hand.  The  semi-obscurity  of  the  room  and  his 
own  sincerity  had  led  him  upon  delicate  ground. 

44  No,"  replied  M.  Michel.  44  When  all  the  gar 
den  was  budding,  I  was  in  the  shade." 

44  God  forgot  you,  my  friend,"  said  M.  Lande, 
gently. 

Father  Le  Blanc  looked  at  the  speaker  specu- 
latively,  from  under  the  shade  of  his  hand.  How 
was  it  that  this  man  who,  deceived  by  the  sirens, 
had  plunged  so  early  into  the  sea  of  disappoint 
ment,  could  keep  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  stars  ? 

44  Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  replied  M.  Michel,  mus 
ingly.  44  For  I,  too,  must  have  been  capable  of 
folly,  and  might  have  had  in  my  drawer  a  faded 
rose,  or  an  old  glove,  whose  perfume  could  still 
intoxicate.  But  I  have  none,"  he  added,  naively. 

44  Listen  to  this  appeal  of  your  own  heart.  It 
is  stronger  than  the  young  lover's,  for  he  has  no 
past,  and  you  have  one.  It  is  stronger  than  the 
voice  of  wisdom,  or  the  arguments  of  experience 


BUT  YET  A    WOMAN.  307 

Why  ?  Because  first  love  is  an  instinct ;  every 
other  is  a  philosophy.  It  is  at  once  a  gift  and  a 
sacrifice,  —  every  other  is  a  bargain." 

"  Good  bargains  are  always  good  bargains," 
hazarded  M.  Michel,  thinking  of  Madame  Lande. 
He  did  not  dare  employ  too  boldly  the  aryumen* 
turn  ad  hominem. 

"  A  gift  is  never  a  bargain,"  replied  M.  Lande, 
warmly.  "  What  a  dull,  miserable  business,  to 
go  to  a  shop,  to  exchange  values  at  fixed  rates,  to 
be  exact  to  a  centime  !  Love,  trust,  veneration, 
are  not  made  for  buying  and  selling.  The  man 
who  seeks  for  one  worthy  of  them  is  the  man  who 
is  deceived.  They  are  the  wealth  of  his  own  na* 
ture,  and  he  must  give  them  freely,  without  after 
thought.  And  this  gift  increases  tho  world's 
stock ;  it  enriches  the  poorest  heart.  It  is  such 
offerings,  from  the  depth  of  our  own  nature,  which, 
received  by  us  from  heaven  and  given  again  to  the 
world,  increase  its  capital.  Nothing  comes  of  a 
bargain.  Oh,  I  know  of  what  you  aro  thinking! 
All  this,  you  say,  is  very  fine  in  principle,  but  '  de 
tails  are  melancholy  ;  '  in  theory  we  hit  the  mark 
fairly,  but  in  experience  every  stroke  glances. 
And  what  of  that  ?  Will  you  ask  our  friend  hero 
to  discard  all  those  beautiful  symbols  which  ho 
made  use  of  at  mass  this  morning,  and  which, 
like  lenses,  aid  our  eyes  to  apprehend  the  great 
tragedy  of  redemption,  because  our  poor  eyes  still 
remain  blind?  You  will  Kot  be  able  to  stop 


808  BUT  YET  A    WOMAN. 

there,"  he  continued,  following  up  his  simile,  "  you 
will  send  the  good  God  himself  back  to  heaven 
because  He  makes  a  poor  bargain." 

44  My  friend,"  said  M.  Michel,  slowly,  "  you  are 
at  once  the  saddest  and  the  happiest  of  men." 

Continually  carried  away  by  his  feelings,  M. 
Lande  was  easily  recalled  to  a  sense  of  his  au 
dacity,  between  which  and  timidity  he  swayed 
like  a  pendulum. 

"  The  man  who  is  truly  happy  is  the  man  who 
has  seen  the  truth  and  is  not  dismayed  by  it,"  said 
Father  Le  Blanc,  replying  for  him. 

"•  I  wish,"  said  M.  Michel,  after  a  long  silence, 
"  I  wish  your  maxim  was  also  a  recipe.  I  know 
some  one  to  whom  I  would  give  it." 

44  To  whom  ?  "  asked  Father  Le  Blanc,  stirring 
the  embers. 

"  To  my  sister  Stephanie." 

"She.  is  not  happy?"  said  the  priest,  looking 
up  from  the  fire,  and  wondering  how  much  this 
man  really  saw  who  said  so  little. 

"Well,"  replied  M.  Michel,  "  do  you  think  so?" 

"  Perhaps  it  is  so." 

44 1  do  not  know;  it  is  only  a  thought  that  J 
have." 

M.  Lande,  who  was  not  a  close  observer,  lis 
tened. 

4(1  She  will  not  find  happiness  in  lovers,"  Father 
Le  Blanc  continued,  after  a  pause  ;  44  nor  any. 
where  else  till  she  seeks  it  where  she  is  now  un 
willing  to  look  for  it." 


BUT  YET  A    WOMAN.  S09 

"  I  always  thought  she  would  make  a  better 
nun  than  Renee.  She  has  a  good  deal  of  the  re. 
ligious  element  in  her  nature,"  said  M.  Michel. 

Father  Le  Blanc's  astonishment  grew  as  he  lis 
tened.  "  I  never  thought  of  it,"  he  said,  candidly 
"  She  lias  a  great  deal  of  religious  principle,  if  you 
will,  but  no  religious  sentiment." 

"  Well,  that  is  better  than  to  be  all  religious  sen 
timent  without  any  religious  principle,  —  like  M. 
de  Marzac,  for  example.  You  see,"  continued  M. 
Michel,  watching  the  priest's  efforts  to  reconstruct 
the  fire,  "there  are  some  to  whom  God  reveals 
himself  in  the  world,  in  its  beauty  or  in  its  love. 
They  cannot  look  in  the  sun.  But  to  some  He 
unveils  his  own  person,  and  speaks  face  to  face.'* 

"  Yes,  you  are  right,"  said  Father  Le  Blanc, 
abstractedly.  "But  sentiment  is  of  great  value. 
There  is  more  religion  in  the  Litany  than  in  all 
the  encyclopaedia  of  theology."  To  tell  the  truth, 
he  was  thinking  so  intently  of  Stephanie  that  he 
hardly  knew  what  he  was  saying. 

"Who  said  anything  of  theology,  my  friend?" 
replied  M.  Michel. 

Father  Le  Blanc  made  no  answer.  He  had 
gathered  together  the  charred  pieces  of  wood  and 
had  at  last  succeeded  in  coaxing  from  them  a  little 
blaze,  which  played  furtively  among  the  fragments. 
"She  comes  back  with  Renee,  I  suppose,"  he  said, 
sitting  up  in  his  chair  and  watching  the  flames. 

"  Yes,  next  week." 


310  BUT  YET  A    WOMAN. 

"And  does  she  remain  in  Paris  this  winter?  " 
"  She  does  not  say.     But  why  not  ?     There  ia 
the  marriage  of  Renee" — 

O 

"  True,"  replied  Father  Le  Blanc,  leaning  back 
and  closing  his  eyes,  "  I  had  forgotten."  His  lit 
tle  blue  flame  had  disappeared  again. 

"  Suppose,"  said  M.  Lande,  after  another  si 
lence,  "  that  in  losing  a  niece  you  should  gain  a 
sister." 

M.  Michel  looked  at  him  in  the  fadmg  !y,ttt,  in 
credulously. 

"  Oh,  I  know  you,"  replied  M.  Landtov  with  a 
nod  of  complete  understanding.  "  You  would  not 
move  to  the  Boulevard  St.  Germain,  but  Madame 
Milevski,  who  is  to  reside  in  Paris  all  the  winter, 
might  preside  over  the  Rue  du  Bac." 

"I  should  not  think  of  it,"  said  M.  Michel, 
quickly,  u  nor  she  either.  We  love  each  other  at 
a  distance." 

Father  Le  Blanc  laughed  again. 

"  I  am  such  an  old  fellow,  you  know.  With 
Re  ne'e  it  was  different ;  I  began  when  she  was 
yonng.  Besides,  madaine  has  too  many  servants, 
They  would  distract  me  ;  and  she  brings  a  new 
one  from  Spain,  a  sort  of  courier  —  you  remember 
—  Antonio  —  of  whom  Re'ne'e  wrote  to  us." 

"  Oh  yes,  I  recollect,"  said  M.  Lande.  "  I  see 
him  alrendy,  in  his  sash  and  leggings." 

Here  Bnptiste  and  candles  put  an  end  to  then 
talk.  He  brought  the  coffee,  and  there  was  also 


BUT  YET  A   WOMAN.  311 

a  little  flagon  of  brandy  for  Father  Le  Blanc,  with 
which  he  flavored  his. 

M.  de  Marzac,  Baptiste  said,  had  called  in  the 
afternoon  to  inquire  when  Madame  Milevski  would 
return. 

To  M.  Michel  this  inquiry  was  only  an  act  of 
politeness,  but  in  reality  it  was  much  more.  M. 
de  Marzac  bad  latterly  been  undergoing  a  process 
of  which  this  inquiry  was,  in  a  sense,  the  culmina 
tion  ;  a  process  begun,  indeed,  long  ago,  at  Kief, 
where  the  idea,  "  how  beautiful  she  is ! "  had 
dropped  like  a  ferment  into  his  affective  nature, 
and  that  had  now  developed  into  a  fever  which 
prevented  judgment  from  holding  the  balance  be 
tween  his  thoughts  and  his  emotions.  Men  like 
M.  de  Marzac,  whose  moral  principles  are  not 
wrought  into  their  nature  as  moral  qualities,  but 
are  put  on,  as  garments  are,  to  adorn  or  to  con 
ceal,  fall  more  easily  a  prey  to  such  fevers.  They 
are  like  bubbles  of  air,  mere  shells  of  external 
decoration  without  resisting  power,  swaying  in  the 
lightest  air  and  collapsing  in  the  storm.  A  stern 
moralist  would  have  classified  him,  without  the 
slightest  scruple,  among  the  thoroughly  bad. 
And  it  is  true  that  he  was  brave  only  so  long  as 
he  had  the  advantage  ;  that  he  possessed  an  un 
limited  number  of  fine  moral  sayings,  which  fell 
from  his  lips  under  his  feet ;  that  he  was  resolute 
and  persevering  only  because  selfish  and  vindic 
tive  ;  that  his  prudence  was  but  caution,  his  prin- 


812  BUT   YET  A  WOMAN. 

ciple  but  policy,  and  his  wealth  and  influence  the 
means  of  self-gratification  only.  But  to  stop  here 
would  certainly  be  doing  him  injustice.  Stand 
ards  may  be  set  too  high.  It  is  well  to  have  high 
ideals  for  one's  self,  but  in  dealing  with  one's 
neighbors  it  is  indispensable  to  forget  them.  Did 
not  M.  de  Marzac  discharge  the  ordinary  duties 
and  debts  of  life  with  regularity  and  precision  ? 
Tradespeople  pronounced  him  just,  servants  called 
him  generous  ;  and  what  his  wealth  did  for  this 
class,  his  ability  (ever  enlisted  on  the  side  of  pub 
lic  security,  moral  order,  and  religion)  did  for 
another.  There  were  hundreds  who  only  knew 
him  by  the  signature  at  the  end  of  his  articles  in 
the  "  Univers,"  who  read  the  man  in  his  utter 
ances.  M.  de  Marzac  might  have  died  quietly  in 
his  bed  in  the  Avenue  Friedland,  after  receiving 
the  sacraments,  leaving  no  one  the  wiser.  Does 
not  many  a  man  with  the  heel  of  Achilles  escape 
a  wound  in  the  vulnerable  spot,  and  die  unsus 
pected  of  weakness  ? 

The  truth  is,  M.  de  Marzac  had  heretofore  man 
aged  to  escape  strong  fire.  He  was  not  easily 
stirred.  He  took  life  quietly,  with  a  philosophy 
that  accommodated  itself  without  revolt  to  every 
rircumstance.  His  passions  were  not  deeply  or 
readily  excited,  and,  says  one,  "If  you  wish  to 
know  the  man,  stir  his  passions."  M.  de  Sacy, 
who  won  from  him  forty  thousand  francs  at  a 
sitting,  had  not  been  able  to ;  he  lost  with  sanf 


BUT  YET  A   WOMAN.  313 

froid  and  a  perfect  equanimity.    Neither  the  Rad 
icals  nor  the  Bonapartists,  whom  he  fought  with 
his  pen,  had  ever  betrayed  him  into  an  imprudence 
which  required  him  to  draw  his  sword.     Mademoi 
selle   Celimene,  of   the   Theatre   Comique,   broke 
with    him    and    went    to    Berlin  with    a  German 
banker  without  having  had  a  scene.     How  did  it 
happen  that  Stephanie  Milevski  could   make  him 
betray   himself?     He    had  often   asked  the  same 
question.     His  fever  had  begun  with  an  appetite 
which  rose  and  fell  with  the  presence  and  absence 
of    the   excitant,     In   the  Kief    ball-room  it   was 
only  a  pleasant  emotion,  barely  lingering  through 
the  drive  back  to  his  lodgings.     In  the  year  of  his 
intimacy   with   her  which   preceded   the   visit   to 
Frohsdorf,  this  appetite  had  been  more  constantly 
excited,  and   he  had  grown  more  definitely  con 
scious  of  it,  till,  at  the  close  of  the  year,  it  was 
no  longer  an  appetite,  but  a  desire.     Moreover, 
long  continued  and  long  thwarted,  it  had  ceased 
to  produce  pleasure ;  it  was  now  a  discomfort  and 
a  pain.     On   the  way  back   from    the  ball  M.  de 
Marzac  had  played  with  it,  smiled  at  it,  — now  it 
stood  over  him  with  a  whip  of   fire.      He  would 
gladly  have  escaped  this  tyranny  ;  but,  at  the  first, 
vanity  precluded  retreat  from  a  course  in  which 
he  had  taken  so  many  steps,  and  he  moved  in  the 
line  of  least  resistance.     The  same  was  still  true, 
but  to  a  greater  degree.     To  retreat  now,  in  the 
strength  of  his  heightened   desire   and  wounded 


314  BUT  YET  A   WOMAN. 

pride,  required  unselfishness  and  virtue.  M.  de 
Marzac  had  a  strong  will,  but  how  should  any  one 
expect  him  to  will  an  act  of  unselfishness  and  he 
roic  virtue  when  neither  unselfishness,  heroism,  or 
virtue  were  within  the  range  of  his  reflection  or 
experience  ?  Pears,  as  Antonio  said,  do  not  grow 
on  elms,  and  will  is  only  another  name  for  intelli 
gence.  All  the  thoughts  and  feelings  of  his  past, 
even  those  which,  at  the  time,  had  seemed  most 
ephemeral,  were  stored  up  in  his  organization,  and 
were  now  the  forces  latent  in  certain  springs  of 
action,  or  the  chains  which  bound  others. 

During  the  year  alluded  to,  his  close  intimacy 
with  Stephanie,  a  long  concentration  of  thought 
and  desire  upon  her,  together  with  an  overween 
ing  confidence  in  himself,  had  led  to  a  habit  of 
mind,  —  that  of  looking  upon  her  as  a  part  of  his 
own  life,  —  and  the  sudden  destruction  of  his  hope 
had  destroyed  his  reason,  or,  as  he  said,  his  tem 
per.  After  Stephanie's  departure  for  Spain,  he 
often  looked  back  to  those  interviews  he  had  had 
with  her  as  acts  of  folly.  But  these  lucid  inter 
vals  were  neither  long  nor  frequent.  What  had 
at  first  been  a  spasm  of  anger  and  disappointment 
gradually  became  a  chronic  sullenness  and  morose- 
ness,  less  violent  but  more  persistent.  Madame 
Milevski  had  come  to  be  his  right  after  having  so 
long  been  his  desire.  Pride,  obstinacy,  caprice, 
—  these  were  sufficient  to  explain  her.  He  him 
self  had  been  abused.  Were  not  lovers  masters, 
who  only  played  the  part  of  slaves  ? 


BUT  YET  A   WOMAN.  315 

M.  de  Marzac  WHS  especially  fond  of  two  things, 
government  and  irresponsibility.  His  life  was  a 
more  or  less  unconscious  effort  to  marry  them,  to 
enjoy  enough  of  one  to  save  the  other.  While 
Stephanie  was  in  Paris  he  could,  he  thought,  con 
trol  events ;  but  in  Spain,  with  Rdnee,  she  es 
caped  him  ;  his  hand  missed  the  lever.  His  plans 
were  too  vague,  too  unsettled,  for  confidence.  He 
mistrusted  everything.  Shut  off  by  the  interrup 
tion  to  M.  Michel's  receptions  from  all  sources  of 
information,  he  had  remained  ignorant  of  her  ill 
ness  until  after  Roger's  return,  and  this  episode 
disconcerted  him.  Roger's  journey  and  delayed 
return  still  further  irritated  him.  There  was  no 
one  who  could  tell  him  what  he  wanted  to  know, 
except,  possibly,  Madame  Valfort,  and  she  had 
gone  to  Rome  for  the  winter  with  her  husband. 
He  waited  like  a  mariner  who,  having  lost  his 
compass,  and  being  driven  on  by  the  wind,  listens 
anxiously  for  the  sound  of  breakers,  and  waits  im 
patiently  for  the  morning. 

When  he  inquired  of  Baptiste  the  day  of  ma- 
dame's  return,  he  had  reached  the  limit  of  his  en 
durance,  and  the  few  days  which  still  intervened 
he  spent  in  a  restless  wandering  between  the  club, 
the  cafe*,  the  bureau,  and  the  Avenue  Friedland. 
On  the  evening  of  her  arrival  he  walked  down  the 
Boulevard  de  Sebastopol,  not  actually  going  to 
the  station,  yet  impelled  in  that  direction,  —  hop 
ing,  perhaps,  to  see  without  being  seen.  Then 


816  BUT  YET  A   WOMAN. 

followed  a  day  of  indecision.  On  the  next  one 
he  passed  by  her  house  in  the  Boulevard  St.  Ger 
main,  and  saw  the  gate  was  open  and  the  per 
siennes  drawn.  She  had  returned.  To  his  relief 
he  received,  the  next  morning,  an  invitation  from 
M.  Michel,  who  resumed  his  reunions.  He  had 
yet  forty- eight  hours  to  kill,  and,  on  the  day  in 
question,  he  anticipated  the  evening  by  dining 
earlier  than  usual,  and  commencing  his  toilette 
immediately  after  dinner.  All  this  caused  Fran- 
(jois,  his  valet,  to  wonder.  When  at  last  Bap- 
tiste  had  taken  his  hat,  and  he  stood  at  the  door 
of  M.  Michel's  salon,  he  hesitated.  When  he 
thought  of  action  everything  became  confused, 
and,  as  he  steadied  himself,  seemed  to  melt  away 
and  elude  reflection.  He  glanced  at  his  attire, 
made  an  effort,  and  entered  smiling. 

The  rooms  were  full,  and  there  were  faces  un 
familiar  to  him.  Something  unusual  seemed  to 
be  going  on.  Renee  was  a  centre  of  attraction. 
In  her  rear  stood  M.  Lande,  looking  very  happy 
and  much  pleased  with  himself.  There  were  no 
quiet  groups  of  causeurs ;  an  unusual  animation 
prevailed.  He  did  not  see  Stephanie,  so  he  pressed 
forward  with  others  and  paid  his  compliments  to 
mademoiselle. 

"  It  is  worth  while  to  have  gone  to  Spain,"  he 
said  afterwards  to  M.  Michel,  "  to  meet  witn  such 
a  reception." 

"It  seems  to  please  everyone  —  except  myself," 
was  the  reply. 


BUT   YET  A   WOMAN.  317 

M.  de  Marzac  did  not  understand  it,  but  as  he 
passed  on  he  met  Father  Le  Blanc,  who  told  him 
of  Renee's  betrothal.  It  was  not  wholly  unex 
pected,  yet  it  set  him  a-thinking. 

"  Did  not  Madame  Milevski  return  with  made 
moiselle  ?  " 

"  Yes,  she  has  entirely  recovered.  That  is,  I 
am  told  so ;  I  have  not  seen  her." 

"  Then  she  is  not  present  to-night." 

"No,  M.  Michel  says  she  desired  to  be  ex 
cused." 

"  Ah!  "  said  M.  de  Marzac.  What  wonder!  he 
thought  to  himself.  This  was  Renee's  uday."  It 
could  hardly  be  an  agreeable  one  for  Stephanie. 
What !  able  to  make  a  journey  from  Granada  to 
Paris,  but  unable  to  ride  from  the  Boulevard  St. 
Germain  to  the  Rue  du  Bac !  Bah  !  he  knew  bet 
ter.  A  little  flutter  of  hope  stirred  in  his  heart. 
He  pictured  to  himself  a  woman  alone,  forgotten, 
and  unhappy,  and  he  determined  to  go  at  once. 
He  saw  Roger,  but  avoided  him.  He  waited  his 
opportunity  when  Re  ne'e  was  less  occupied,  and 
approached  her  to  make  his  adieux  with  some 
thing  of  his  old  assurance. 

As  he  did  so,  he  stopped  suddenly,  his  eyes  riv 
eted  upon  an  object  which  she  held  in  her  hand. 
It  was  a  fan,  small  but  of  striking  beauty,  which 
a  young  blonde,  the  niece  of  M.  Scherer,  was  ex 
amining  with  expressions  of  admiration. 

"  I  never  saw  one  at  all  like  it,"  she  was  say- 


518  BUT   YET  A    WOMAN. 

ing.  "  What  is  this  covering  ?  It  is  not  silk, 
no,  nor  paper.  Ah  !  here  is  M.  de  Marzac,"  she 
exclaimed,  looking  up  ;  "  he  is  a  connoisseur  in  such 
matters.  What  is  this  material  ?  "  she  asked,  hold 
ing  out  the  fan  to  him  ;  "  we  cannot  decide." 

His  fingers  trembled  as  he  took  it  in  his  hand. 
A  flood  of  recollection  rushed  over  him.  He  was 
no  longer  in  the  Rue  du  Bac.  The  hum  of  his 
quickened  blood  sounded  in  his  ears  like  the  rush 
ing  of  a  river  which  he  had  once  heard  smiting 
the  rocks  in  the  defile  of  the  Sierra.  He  was  flee 
ing  again  amid  gusts  of  rain,  listening  above  the 
wind  for  the  voices  of  pursuers,  holding  hard  to 
the  saddle  on  a  road  lost  in  the  blackness  of 
night. 

"  Well,"  said  Mademoiselle  Scherer,  impatient 
ly,  "you  cannot  tell  us?" 

"  Yes,  mademoiselle,"  replied  M.  de  Marzac, 
rallying  as  he  knew  how  to,  and  in  his  politest 
manner  ;  "  it  is  vellum,  but  it  is  not  common. 
Where,  may  I  ask,  did  you  find  it,  mademoiselle  ?•" 
looking  at  Rene'e. 

"  I  bought  it  in  Granada." 

44  What  pretty  ones  they  make  in  Spain,"  ex- 
•laimed  Mademoiselle  Scherer,  taking  the  fan  again. 

"  Not  prettier  than  in  France,"  replied  M.  de 
Marzac;  "only,  in  Spain  they  know  how  to  use 
them." 

44  Have  you  been  there  ?  "  asked 

A  No,  never,"  he  replied,  calmly 


BUT  YET  A   WOMAN.  319 

44  How  do  you  know,  then,  that  the  Spanish 
ladies  use  the  fan  so  much  better  than  we  do  ? " 
asked  Mademoiselle  Scherer,  who  was  studying 
the  picture  painted  on  the  vellum. 

"  By  reading  M.  Gautier,  who  says  so." 

44  I  do  not  believe  your  Monsieur  Gautier.  At 
all  events,  he  is  very  ungallant.  But  seev  Rd- 
ne*e,  here  is  a  name  on  the  trunk  of  this  tree, 
F-e  "  — 

44  The  artist's,"  said  M.  de  Marzac,  leaning  over 
and  examining  it  in  his  turn  also. 

"  No,  it  is  a  woman's,  —  Fe-li-sa,  —  besides,  it 
is  written  in  pencil." 

44 1  knew  it !  "  exclaimed  Renee,  with  anima 
tion.  44 1  told  Antonio  it  was  not  a  new  fan. 
The  folds  are  a  little  worn  with  use  —  do  you 
see  ? "  she  said,  pointing  to  the  marks  on  the 
seams.  44  Do  you  think  this  could  be  the  name 
of  its  owner  ?  " 

"  At  all  events,  it  is  a  very  pretty  one,"  said 
Mademoiselle  Scherer.  44  Felisa  !  Felicite  !  She 
ought  to  have  been  happy  with  such  a  fan.  Let 
me  look  again,  Renee,"  she  continued,  with  a  mis 
chievous  smile  in  her  eyes ;  "  there  ought  to  be 
another  name  there  on  the  tree,  after  the  fashion 
of  lovers.  No,  nothing.  What  a  pity  !  It  was 
almost  a  romance.  N'importe  !  we  can  write  two 
others,  can  we  not,  M.  de  Marzac  ?  Have  yon, 
perchance,  a  pencil  ?  "  and  she  laughed  gayly. 

44  Anne  !  "  said  Re*nee,  endeavoring  to  be  stern 


320  BUT  YET  A   WOMAN. 

and  beginning  to  grow  red.  She  had  seen  Roger 
approaching. 

"  What  is  it  that  amuses  you,  Mademoiselle 
Scherer?"  he  asked  of  the  young  girl,  who  was 
dying  of  laughter. 

"  Ah,  M.  Lande,  is  it  you  ?  We  have  found  on 
ibis  fan  of  RcneVs,  which  she  thinks  has  belonged 
already  to  some  one,  the  name  of  its  owner.  Do 
you  see,  there,  on  the  trunk  of  that  tree  by  the 
fountain?" 

Roger,  who  had  the  fan  in  his  band,  and  could 
read  the  name  easily,  started  involuntarily.  Ma- 
tias'  story  came  back  to  him. 

"  Oh,  have  no  fear!"  exclaimed  Anne,  laugh 
ing  again,  "  it  is  a  woman's  —  look,  Felisa." 

"  Where  does  this  fan  come  from  ? "  asked 
Roger,  gravely. 

u  Why,  it  is  RdneVs,  I  have  told  you.  She 
bought  it  in  Malaga,  in  Granada,  in  Spain  some 
where.  Well,  what  is  the  matter  !  "  she  exclaimed, 
looking  from  Roger,  whose  face  was  flushed,  to  M. 
de  Marzae,  whose  lips  were  bloodless. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  said  Roger  to  Rcnde,  who, 
perceiving  his  emotion,  was  as  much  astonished 
as  her  companion,  "will  you  give  me  this  fan  ? 
It  has  a  history;  some  time  I  will  tell  it  to  you. 
Not  now,"  lie  said,  curtly,  to  Mademoiselle  Scherer, 
whose  amazement  was  becoming  a  curiosity,  "have 
a  little  patience  ;  it  is  worth  it."  And  he  offered 
his  arm  to  Rdnee. 


BUT   YET  A    WOMAN.  321 

"  Mon  Dieu  !  what  a  mystery  !  "  exclaimed 
Mademoiselle  Scherer,  after  they  had  gone. 

"  A  lover's  quarrel  —  already  ! "  said  M.  de 
Marzac,  with  a  fine  smile  of  irony. 

The  young  girl  shot  a  swift  glance  of  dissent 
from  her  wondering  eyes,  and  turned,  perplexed 
and  troubled,  at  the  result  of  her  discovery,  to 
M.  Scherer. 

Left  alone,  M.  de  Marzac  sought  the  door.  On 
hearing  of  ReneVs  betrothal,  he  had  resolved  to 
go  to  Stephanie.  But  this  incident  had  driven 
her  completely  from  his  thoughts.  When  he  went 
out,  he  turned  down  the  Rue  du  Bac  to  the  river, 
and  then  up  the  street  along  the  quay.  What  did 
he  know  ?  —  this  man  who  had  stepped  uncon 
sciously  between  Stephanie  and  him,  and  who  now 
held  in  his  hand  Felisa's  fan.  And  Antonio  !  that 
name,  in  his  thoughts  only,  it  made  him  shiver. 
All  this  was  so  sudden  ;  like  light  poured  into  a 
chamber  he  thought  locked  forever.  The  quiet 
and  solitude  of  the  quay,  the  dull  noise  of  the 
river,  oppressed  him.  He  crossed  the  bridge  and 
took  the  Rue  de  la  Paix  to  the  Boulevards.  It 
was  broad  noon  there  ;  but  the  brilliant  shops,  the 
thronged  sidewalks,  the  cafes  overflowing  with 
lights  and  the  hum  of  voices,  the  roar  of  wheels 
on  the  roadway,  all  this  tumult  so  familiar  and 
so  dvar  to  him,  could  not  drown  the  haunting 
voices  of  fear  which  pursued  him.  Even  con 
science,  wasted  to  a  superstition,  dogged  him  re- 
21 


322  BUT  YET  A   WOMAN. 

vengefully.  He  passed  the  door  of  the  club. 
There  was  the  carriage  of  M.  de  Sacy,  whose  liv 
ery  he  recognized,  standing  at  the  curbstone  in 
the  blaze  of  gaslight,  the  coachman  on  his  box 
with  his  whip  on  his  knee.  But  he  went  on  with 
out  pausing.  Behind  the  plate  glass  of  the  Cafe* 
Anglais  he  saw  some  of  his  friends,  who  saluted 
him  and  beckoned  him  to  a  place  at  their  table. 
But  lie  sent  them  back  a  forced  smile,  with  a  nod 
of  recognition,  and  kept  on.  Now  and  then  he 
gave  a  glance  at  the  windows  whose  reduplicating 
mirrors  were  arranged  to  catch  the  eye  of  the 
loiterer,  and  which  formed  the  background  to  all 
this  tide  of  life  passing  before  them,  —  seeing 
everything,  yet  recognizing  nothing.  This  wide 
street  through  which,  like  an  artery,  poured  the 
feverish  blood  of  civilization,  how  different  from 
that  narrow  crevice  of  the  Zacatin  !  Yet  it  was 
there  lie  was  loitering.  An  array  of  fans,  sus 
pended  from  their  silken  tassels  and  spread  open 
on  velvet  cushions,  made  him  shudder,  and  urged 
him  forward  again  down  the  Boulevard.  He 
straightened  up,  occasionally  quickening  his  gait, 
with  a  smile  of  self-contempt. 

Still  he  went  on,  by  the  Maison  Dore"e,  across 
the  street,  down  the  Rue  de  Choiseul,  into  the  Rue 
de  Richelieu,  circuitously,  yet  ever  towards  the 
river,  like  a  man  who  has  an  appointment  but  is 
in  advance  of  the  hour.  And  this  was  the  fact. 
M.  de  Marzac  had  an  appointment.  Whether  he 


BUT  YET  A    WOMAN.  323 

knew  it  or  not,  it  drew  him  on  to  the  place  and 
the  hour  fixed.  Fate,  which  he  had  so  often  pic 
tured  as  the  current  of  life,  enveloped  him,  sweep 
ing  him  on  he  knew  not  where  with  the  steady 
set  of  a  tide. 

Arrived  at  the  Pont  des  Arts  he  lingered  a 
moment,  leaning  on  the  railing;  then,  with  a  ges 
ture  of  impatience  that  seemed  to  say,  "  Well,  be 
it  so!  I  yield  to  you!"  he  recrossed  the  river 
and  took  his  way  straight  to  the  Boulevard  St. 
Germain. 

The  gates  were  closed,  but  a  light  burned  in  the 
concierge's  window.  He  rang  the  bell  firmly,  his 
eyes  fixed  on  the  polished  brass  knob  till  it  turned 
to  the  pull  of  the  cord.  He  entered  the  passage 
way,  exchanging  a  look  with  the  concierge  through 
the  window,  and  crossed  the  court-yard.  Jacques 
himself  opened  the  door.  Was  Madame  Milevski 
at  home  ? 

"  No,  monsieur,  but  she  is  expected?  every  in 
stant.  Will  monsieur  wait  ?  " 

Yes,  he  would  wait. 

He  ascended  the  stairs  to  the  little  room  he 
knew  so  well.  At  the  door  his  courage  had  begun 
to  fail  him  ;  now  he  was  more  easy.  Nothing  was 
changed  in  this  room.  He  knew  every  article  of 
furniture.  There  was  the  seat  in  the  window 
overlooking  the  garden,  and  a  handkerchief,  deli 
cate,  with  its  faint  perfume,  on  the  cushion.  He 
sat  down  there  and  waited.  How  many  things  it 


324  BUT  YET  A    WOMAN. 

said  to  him,  that  handkerchief,  abandoned  care 
lessly,  within  his  reach !  The  clock  ticked  on 
the  mantel  with  its  familiar  timbre.  He  seemed 
at  home  ;  everything  was  so  cosy  and  natural, 
and  lost  in  his  thoughts  he  waited  patiently  in 
the  window.  What  should  he  care  for  a  fan ! 
Spain  was  leagues  away.  He  was  thinking  of 
Stdphanie.  She  must  be  his  now ;  they  would 
go  —  they  would  go —  far  away,  —  and  he  began 
to  dream. 

Suddenly  he  remembered  everything. 

It  was  no  longer  Stephanie  for  whom  he  was 
waiting,  but  Felisa,  dark  with  vengeance  and  re 
proach.  He  started  to  his  feet  and  looked  at  the 
clock.  He  had  been  there  an  hour.  He  rang  the 
bell,  but  no  one  answered.  Was  it  a  silly  terror 
which  benumbed  his  feet  and  chilled  his  blood  in 
this  warm  and  pleasant  room  ?  No  one  was  there 
to  alarm  him.  No  one  hid  in  the  curtains  hang 
ing  motionless  before  the  window.  Yes,  some  one 
was  there.  At  the  hour  appointed,  the  senses 
become,  acute.  He  seized  his  hat  and  gloves,  and 
opened  the  door.  The  stairway  was  dimly  lighted, 
and  he  descended  noiselessly.  His  hand  was  on 
the  door  when  he  turned,  —  did  not  some  one  call 
him?  —  to  see  the  face  of  Antonio  at  his  shoul 
der.  All  his  courage  leaped  into  his  muscles.  At 
bay,  nature  came  to  the  rescue.  He  turned  with 
a  mighty  spring  upon  his  assailant,  —  but  it  was 
too  late.  A  shock,  cold  as  an  icicle  and  changing 


BUT   YET  A   WOMAN.  325 

in  an  instant  to  a  stinging  heat,  paralyzed  the 
muscles  of  his  neck ;  everything  swirled  before 
his  eyes,  and  he  sank  with  a  gasp  on  the  stone 
floor  of  the  vestibule. 


326  BUT  YET  A    WOMAN. 


XXII. 

LYING  on  his  bed  in  the  chamber  of  the  Avenue 
Fried  land,  his  face  white,  his  eyes  closed,  M.  de 
Marzac  called  for  pity.  To-morrow,  as  he  makes 
his  last  earthly  journey,  those  who  have  never 
heard  his  name  will  take  off  their  hats,  not  to 
him,  indeed,  but  to  the  monarch  whom  all  his 
courtiers  know  and  to  whom  they  uncover  when 
the  cortege  passes  by.  Even  M.  de  Sacy,  who 
really  cared  but  little  for  his  friend,  was  here  at 
his  bedside,  with  that  mingled  awe  and  tenderness 
which  Death  inspires.  The  summons  possessed 
majesty,  because  it  was  one  he  also  in  his  turn 
should  hear. 

He  met  the  physician  as  he  ascended  the  stair 
way. 

"  Has  he  no  chance  ?  " 

"  None." 

There  was  a  momentary  pause  of  embarrass 
ment. 

"  What  a  frightful  catastrophe  !  "  said  M.  de 
Sacy,  with  a  gesture  of  helplessness. 

The  doctor  nodded  gravely.  He  was  chary  of 
words.  He  had  made  a  dozen  visits  that  morn- 
Ing,  and  had  yet  as  many  more  before  him,  be- 


BUT  YET  A    WOMAN.  827 

sides  a  room  in  which  people  were  already  begin 
ning  to  gather,  awaiting  their  turns. 

M.  de  Sacy  opened  the  door  of  the  salon.  Fran- 
^ois,  M.  de  Marzac's  valet,  was  there,  standing  at 
the  window  looking  drearily  into  the  street.  He 
had  the  appearance  of  one  who  is  waiting  for  some 
thing  to  happen.  He  replied  by  a  sign  of  the 
head  to  the  question  which  M.  de  Sacy  asked  with 
his  eyes,  and  the  latter  pushed  gently  the  door 
leading  into  the  chamber,  and  entered  on  tiptoe. 
M.  de  Marzac  opened  his  eyes  and  exchanged  with 
him  a  glance  of  recognition. 

"  My  dear  friend,"  began  M.  de  Sacy,  standing 
at  the  bedside.  He  wore  his  light  gloves,  and  had 
his  hat  still  in  his  hand.  Brilliant,  witty,  never 
at  a  loss  for  a  word,  M.  de  Sacy  could  say  abso 
lutely  nothing.  Did  his  friend  enjoy  his  embar 
rassment  ?  From  out  those  hollow  eyes,  darkened 
already  by  the  shadows  of  the  night  to  come,  he 
looked  at  him  curiously. 

44  Water  !  "  he  said  at  last,  lifting  his  hand. 

M.  de  Sacy  filled  the  glass  on  the  table,  and 
handed  it  to  him  timidly. 

"  Let  go.     I  can  hold  it," 

44  What  a  frightful  catastrophe !  "  repeated  M. 
fie  Sacy  ;  44  but  you  will  soon  be  better  —  in  a  few 
days  "  — 

M.  de  Marzac  on  his  pillows,  the  glass  at  his 
lips,  gave  him  a  peculiar  look. 

44 1  am  sure  of  it,"  continued  his  friend,  reraon- 


328  BUT  YET  A   WOMAN. 

stratingly.  "  I  did  not  expect  to  see  you.  You 
are  looking  "  — 

"  What  did  he  tell  you  ? "  interrupted  M.  de 
Marzac,  glancing  at  the  door. 

"The  doctor?  Absolutely  nothing.  I  only 
passed  him  on  the  stairway." 

"  And  you  asked  him  no  questions  ?  You  had 
so  little  curiosity  ?  " 

"You  are  unreasonable.  When  one  throws 
away  hope,  one  throws  away  the  last  chance. 
Have  courage." 

The  sick  man  closed  his  eyes. 

"  What  can  I  do  for  you,  my  poor  friend,"  said 
M.  de  Sacy,  with  emotion.  "  The  cowardly  vil 
lain  !  But  he  will  be  found  !  " 

M.  de  Marzac  opened  his  eyes  again. 

"Do  you  think  so?" 

"  How  can  you  doubt  it !  In  Paris,  in  broad 
daylight  almost !  I  myself  will "  — 

"  On  the  contrary,  you  will  do  nothing." 

The  two  men  looked  fora  moment  at  each  other 
without  speaking. 

"  You  know  him  ?  "  said  M.  de  Sacy. 

u  I  have  just  made  a  deposition,  and  T  know 
nothing.  But  you,  my  best  friend,"  in  a  tone  in 
which  it  was  impossible  not  to  detect  a  faint 
irony,  "naturally  you  would  do  all  in  your  powor 
to  aid  justice,  to  bring  the  guilty  to  retributi  ^n. 
Do  nothing,  I  tell  you.  The  retribution  is  accom 
plished." 


BUT  YET  A  WOMAN.  329 

He  paused,  for  the  effort  of  speaking  exhausted 
him. 

"The  papers  will  say  that  justice  is  defeated, 
and  that  the  police  are  imbecile.  And  they  will 
be  rioht.  The  one  is  blind,  and  the  other  leads 

o 

her  into  the  ditch.  The  blood  is  paid  for  —  with 
blood." 

M.  de  Sacy  listened  in  astonishment. 

"  I  repeat,  you  are  my  friend ;  you  wish  to  do 
something.  Do  nothing.  Do  you  understand  ?  " 

The  noise  of  a  door  opening  in  the  adjoining 
room  caught  his  ear,  and  he  stopped  to  listen.  In 
the  low  murmur  of  voices  which  followed,  there 
was  one  which  was  a  woman's. 

"  Do  you  promise  ?  "  he  said,  still  listening. 

"  Most  certainly." 

"One  tiling  more,  —  it  is  the  last.  Pardon  me* 
time  presses ;  I  wish  to  save  my  strength.  Go 
out  by  that  door,  —  no,  the  other,  —  through  the 
dining-room ;  you  know  the  way.  But  give  me 
your  hand." 

M.  de  Sacy's  shook  as  he  gave  it. 

"  Bah!"  said  the  sick  man  ;  "have  courage,  as 
you  say.  It  is  only  another  comedy  finished. 
Adieu!" 

It  was  a  dismissal,  not  a  farewell.  But  it  was 
a  relief  to  M.  de  Sacy  to  go. 

The  door  had  scarcely  closed  behind  him,  when 
Francois  appeared  at  the  other. 

"  Yes,  let  her  come  in,"  said  his  master,  antici 
pating  him,  "  and  —  shut  the  door." 


330  BUT  YET  A  WOMAN. 

"  Wait  for  me  here,"  said  Stephanie,  in  the  ad 
joining  room  to  M.  Michel,  who  had  accompanied 
her. 

"As  you  please,"  replied  her  brother,  who  un 
derstood  nothing  of  this  visit  she  had  asked  him 
to  make  with  her. 

She  entered  the  door  which  Frangois  held  open 
for  her.  M.  de  Marzac,  reclining  on  his  pillows, 
motionless,  pale,  his  hair  clinging  to  his  temples 
damp  with  perspiration,  still  possessed  his  air  of 
the  salon. 

"  I  cannot  rise,  madame,  to  receive  you.  Will 
you  do  me  the  honor  to  be  seated  ?  " 

Mechanically  Stephanie  took  the  chair  near  his 
bed,  and  a  silence  followed  in  which  he  watched 
her  attentively. 

"  You  sent  for  me,  M.  de  Marzac,"  she  said  at 
length.  She  was  a  woman,  and  the  spectacle 
touched  her  heart. 

"  Yes,  to  look  at  you,"  he  replied,  slowly,  his 
eyes  still  fixed  upon  her.  "  I  do  not  thank  you 
for  what  would  not  be  given  except  as  one  hap 
pens  to  be  dying.  Oh,  do  not  justify  yourself," 
he  said,  in  answer  to  her  movement.  "  I  know 
what  you  said  to  yourself:  this  man,  assassinated 
in  my  house,  and  about  to  die,  I  must  go  to  him  ; 
it  is  the  least  I  can  do.  I  do  not  misunderstand 
you.  I  have  said  already  that  I  only  wished  to 
look  at  }Tou." 

His  manner  checked  her  utterance.  "  Why  will 
you  speak  of  these  things,"  she  said,  imploringly. 


BUT  Y£T  A    WOMAN.  331 

"  Because  they  interest  me.  Did  you  come  to 
compose  a  sermon  with  me  for  the  4  Univers '  ? 

—  Do  not  interrupt  me,"  he  said,  closing  his  eyes 
with  impatience ;  "  can  you  not  see  every  word 
costs  an  effort  ?     I  have  only  a  few  hours.     Give 
me  the  liberty  of  disposing  of  them  as  I  please ;  it 
is  a  luxury.    Moreover,  I  know  your  catechism  by 
heart." 

"  Do  you  think  I  came  to  reproach,  to  judge 
you?"  she  asked,  sadly. 

"  Naturally  not,  for  you  no  longer  fear  me." 

Her  pride  rose  up  at  his  words,  but  the  place 
and  the  hour  triumphed.  "  I  have  given  you  un- 
happiness.  I  wish  to  ask  your  forgiveness.  Look 
into  the  past,  and  search  for  me." 

"You  think  you  have  a  duty  to  perform,  and 
you  set  about  it  bravely.  But  it  is  needless.  I 
do  not  complain  of  you.  When  a  man  risks  all 
for  a  woman  who  cannot  help  it,  who  does  not 
even  know  it,  why  blame  her  ?  It  is  in  the  sys 
tem.  She  is  only  a  tool  like  the  rest." 

She  did  not  reply.  In  the  presence  of  death 
one  cannot  quarrel,  and  argument  becomes  en 
treaty.  Perhaps  M.  de  Marzac  detected  a  differ 
ence  in  her  demeanor;  she  was  not  wont  to  re 
ceive  insults  so  calmly. 

"Something  has  changed   you.     What   is   it  ? 

—  Have  no  fear.     Dead  men  tell  no  tales  —  well, 
never  mind,  then,"  he  said,  after  a  pause.     "  You 
were  very  good  to  come.     Were  you  not  afraid 


332  BUT  YET  A  WOMAN. 

that  to-morrow  Paris  would  be  talking  about  you  ? 
People  are  so  thoughtless,  —  and  then  the  gossips, 
you  know,  —  they  stop  at  nothing." 

"  Why  will  you  speak  of  these  things,  M.  de 
Marzac?"  she  said,  clasping  her  hands  on  her 
knees,  and  bending  towards  him.  Her  voice  trem 
bled.  "  I  came  to  help  you." 

"True;  I  believe  you.  But  the  gossips, — 
will  they  see  in  you  the  Sister  of  Mercy  ?  " 

She  turned  wearily  to  the  window.  The  cold 
persistency  of  his  banter  chilled  more  than  it 
pained  her. 

"  You  would  make  a  very  pretty  one,"  he  con 
tinued  ;  "  it  is  not  a  bad  idea.  I  advise  you  to 
think  seriously  of  it." 

She  came  back  to  the  bedside.  He  had  touched 
a  deeper  chord  than  he  knew.  "  Ah  !  so  you  have 
thought  of  it  already?"  he  said,  reading  her 
thought  in  her  eyes.  "  But  it 's  too  late.  To 
morrow  it  would  be  needless." 

She  felt  ashamed  of  her  pity.  Could  he  really 
see  only  such  motives,  or  was  he  still  playing  with 
her? 

44  And  your  diamonds,  —  what  will  you  do  with 
them?  The  Church  is  fond  of  diamonds,  —  or 
will  you  give  them  to  Rene'e  ?  " 

She  rose  with  a  sense  of  helplessness  and  hu 
miliation. 

"  Forgive  me,"  he  said,  quickly;  "  I  am  selfish. 
Are  you  going?" 


BUT  YET  A   WOMAN.  333 

"  I  cannot  stay." 

"  Because  what  I  say  pains  you  ?  You  do  not 
know  what  a  luxury  frankness  is.  But  the  test  is 
too  great.  Try  it  yourself,  on  the  next  person 
whom  you  meet,  —  on  Mademoiselle  Renee,  for 
example.  Well,  then,  on  me.  Tell  me,  frankly, 
why  did  you  come  here  ?  " 

"You  cannot  dream,"  she  said,  as  if  speaking 
to  herself. 

"  Yes,  I  can,"  he  replied.     "  You  were,  to  be 
gin  with,  a  little  glad  ;  then  you  also  pitied  me  a 
little  ;  and  then,  since  you  are  to  become  a  nunf 
you  wished  to  pray,  I  suppose." 
The  tears  started  to  her  eyes. 
"  Do  you  remember,"  he  said,  abruptly,  "  that 
night  at  Kief  when  I  first  saw  you?     It  seems  so 
long  ago,  —  except  as  I  see  you.     You  have  not 
changed." 

"  Can  you  not  think  of  the  future,  M.  de  Mar- 
zac  ?  It  is  nearer  than  the  past." 

44  The  future  ?  It  is  like  a  white  page  with 
nothing  written  upon  it.  What  interest  is  there 
in  a  blank  leaf?  But  the  past  —  is  a  book  we 
read  over  and  over.  Each  has  his  own  volume. 
Did  you  ever  think  what  curious  things  would 
happen  if  we  could  exchange  them  with  each 
other?  What  prices  they  would  command  in  the 
market  ?  And  when  you  enter  the  convent,  do 
you  expect  to  rid  yourself  of  the  past?" 
44  No,"  said  Stephanie,  "  nor  when  I  die." 


334  BUT  YET  A  WOMAN. 

44  You  wish  to  frighten  me." 

44 1  wish  to  talk  seriously  with  you,  to  influence 
you,  as  I  might  have  done  in  the  past,  when  I 
thought  only  of  myself.  Life,  after  all,  is  so  little 
a  thing." 

44  You  did  not  once  think  so." 

44 1  was  wrong.     I  have  wasted  it." 

44  You  have  been  talking  with  the  priests,"  he 
rjaid,  angrily.  "  They  wish  to  persuade  you,  who 
are  an  angel,  that  you  are  a  miserable  wretch. 
I  tell  you  you  are  a  saint.  Do  you  think  I  do  ^iot 
know!" 

44  Hush,"  she  said,  gently.  "  You  do  not  know 
what  you  are  saying." 

44  Mon  Dieu  !  it  is  enough  to  raise  the  dead ! 
Why  have  I  sent  for  you,  but  to  kiss  the  hem  of 
your  dress;  to  tell  you,  not  that  I  love  you,  but 
worship  you  !  And  this  is  the  very  thing  which 
hurts  you  most !  Ah  !  if  I  had  the  time,"  he  said, 
in  a  hoarse  whisper,  exhausted  by  his  long  effort, 
u  I  would  undeceive  you !  I  would  tell  you  a 
story  which  would  put  an  end  to  your  humility." 

44  It  is  not  you,  but  God,  who  is  my  judge,  M. 
4e  Marzac,"  said  Stephanie. 

He  lay  quietly,  breathing  heavily,  till,  his  ex- 
dtement  subsided,  he  scarcely  seemed  to  breathe 
at  all.  44  Priests  !  "  she  heard  him  mutter.  44  As 
for  prayers,  I  would  rather  have  yours  than  a 
thousand  priests'."  Then  he  began  to  wander, 
opening  his  eyes  at  times  without  seeming  to  reo- 


BUT   YET  A  WOMAN.  385 

ognize  her.  She  heard  strange  names  and  places, 
confused  sentences  of  which  she  understood  noth 
ing.  She  grew  alarmed,  and  rose  to  call  some 
one ;  but  he  heard  her  movement,  and  put  out  his 
hand.  "No,  kneel  down — pray  something  — 
what  you  will."  She  burst  into  tears ;  and  when, 
after  a  time,  kneeling  at  his  bedside,  she  tried  to 
pray,  his  hand  stole  along  the  coverlid  and  took 
hers.  And  when  the  door  opened  again  softly, 
and  the  priest  entered  with  the  sacraments,  she 
knelt  there  still,  praying. 


836  BUT  YET  A  WOMAN. 


XXIII. 

EXTRACTS. 

"  I  AM  alone. 

"  Alone  !  Is  not  this  why  I  find  my  pen  in  my 
hand  when,  after  Baptiste  has  wished  me  good 
night,  I  seat  myself  in  this  chair?  I  have  no 
longer  my  dear  'Egypt'  before  me.  The  last 
proof-sheet  has  passed  from  my  hands.  In  good 
reason  I  ought  to  close  the  ink-pot  and  rest  the 
pen.  —  Twenty  years  !  How  well  I  remember 
the  first  word  on  the  first  page.  What  a  task  ! 
But  it  is  done.  It  is  a  long  flight  a  posse  ad  esse, 
—  so  long  that  the  wing  continues  to  flutter  though 
the  work  is  done.  Rest  ?  What !  for  a  pen  that 
has  traveled  over  the  lines  for  twenty  years  ? 
There  is  no  more  rest  for  it  than  for  the  Wander 
ing  Jew.  Then  I  am  alone  —  except  Father  Le 
Blanc.  Good  father  !  he  waits  for  the  last  office. 

*'  In  harvest  ti^ie,  the  farmer,  tired  with  his 
day's  work,  sits  a  while  by  the  door.  The  milk 
ing  is  done,  the  cattle  fed,  the  cheeses  turned. 
Between  labor  and  sleep  comes  this  hour  of  twi 
light  and  evening,  when  he  lights  his  pipe  and 
thinks,  or  dreams.  I  can  see  Maitre  Lande  now, 
in  the  farm-house  at  Brienne.  And  I  am  arrived 


BUT  YET  A   WOMAN.  337 

at  the  same  point.     My  work  is  finished,  and  be 
fore  I  sleep  God  gives  me  these  evening  days  in 
which  to  think  and  to  remember.     Tis  a  blessed 
thought  to  compare  death  with  sleep,  —  sleep,  the 
rewarder  of  to-day's  toil  and   the  mother  of  to 
morrow's   labor.      For   surely,    Maitre    Lande   is 
thinking  of  to-morrow;  of  the  field  he  will  plow, 
the  Breton  cow  he  will  buy.     Would  he  lay  down 
his  pipe  and  put  on  his  night-cap  so  complacently, 
if,  in  going  to  sleep,  he  was  to  surrender  all  these? 
And   I,  in   my  twilight,  will  be  complacent  also. 
I  will  purchase,  to-morrow,  a  new  pasture.     Who 
knows  into  what  ink-pot  I  shall  dip  my  pen?     I 
heard  a  man  yesterday,  at  Pere-la-Chaise,  deliver 
ing  an    oration.      Death,  he  said,  is    an   eternal 
sleep.     That  was  enough.     I   came  away.     It  is 
so  easy  to  deal  in  infinities.     How  grandly  these 
fellows  abdicate  the  kingdom  of  self ! 

"  A  year !  How  much  has  happened  in  this 
year.  I  do  not  complain  of  it ;  I  only  state  it. 
Confession  of  sorrow  eases  the  heart,  as  confession 
of  sin  lightens  the  conscience.  First,  Renee.  She 
pretends  she  is  still  mine,  little  sophist!  Then, 
M.  Lande. 

"  L  took  a  walk  the  other  day  with  Stephanie 
to  St.  Cloud,  and  we  talked  of  these  things. 
There  are  some  pines  there  which  must  have  wan 
dered  from  the  north.  They  make  a  strange  con 
trast  among  our  chestnuts  and  limes,  and  they  talk 


338  BUT   YET  A   WOMAN. 

a  strange  language,  too.    They  do  not  rustle  and 
gesticulate  as  we  Frenchmen   do.     They  have  a 
stately  manner  up  there  in  the  north,  and  these 
pines  have  a  speech  in  keeping  with  their  grave 
forms.     It  is  said  that  even  when  there  is  no  wind 
they  sigh  and   whisper  just  the  same.     We   sat 
down   in   the   sombre   shade.     It  was  one  of  my 
sombre  days.     I   used  to   be    even-tempered,   but 
now  in  my  old  age,  with  no  occupation  to  absorb 
my   attention  and   keep    my   thoughts   from    my 
losses,   I  am    sometimes  fretful.     Are    there    not 
some  axioms  for  bald  heads,  which  to  curly  ones 
are  paradoxes  ?     Is  not  labor  rest,  and  work  the 
synonym  for   Eden  ?     «  Do   you   know  what  they 
say,    my    brother?'   said  Stephanie.     'Who?'  I 
asked.     4  The  pines,'  she  replied,  gazing  up  into 
the  branches  over  us.     4  No,  what  do  they  say  ?  ' 
'Peace!  peace!  life  is  very  short,'  she  answered. 
From  her  lips  these  words  had  more  weight  than 
if  read  on  the  page  of  a  philosopher.     If  I  had 
heard  them  at  first  hand,  from  the  pines,  perhaps 
I   should   not   have  remarked   them.     Since  that 
day  I  hear  often  the  murmur  of  these  trees,  rising 
at  intervals  and  subsiding  again   into  a  whisper, 
and  this  is  veritably  what  they  say.     And  now 
she,  too,  is  gone.     Ah  !  but  that  makes  me  angry. 
Hence,   it  was  natural,  — M.  Lande,  it  was  time, 
—  but  Stephanie!  it  is  not  right.     I  will  never 
admit  it. 

"  It  seems  that  I  have  been  loving  more  than  I 


BUT   YET  A   WOMAN.  339 

suspected.  Occupation  has  also  its  disadvantages. 
It  closes  the  door  of  the  library,  and  shuts  out 
laughter  with  strife,  —  the  sun  as  well  as  the  cold. 
Fancy  an  old  man  who  thought  himself  in  love 
with  Thothmes  and  Psammetichus,  waking  up  at 
near  seventy,  to  find  that,  while  absent  in  Egypt,  a 
little  girl  had  crept  into  his  heart  and  curled  her- 
self  up  on  its  hearthstone.  Ah,  these  loves  and 
friendships  !  I  thought  them  lamps  to  light  my 
pathway,  and  lo !  they  were  the  stars  in  the  firma 
ment,  growing  brighter  as  the  night  deepened. 

"  Roger,  —  he  is  a  good  boy,  but  he  is  not 
worthy  of  her.  Doubtless  she  chose  him  for  that 
reason.  The  use  to  which  the  good  are  put  seems 
to  bo  chiefly  that  of  a  leaven.  A  good  work, 
surely,  but  I  am  something  of  an  aristocrat.  I 
would  have  them  soar  in  their  own  heaven.  I 
defy  any  one  to  remember  one  of  those  children  of 
light  without  a  pang  for  their  condition.  They 
all  we;ir  a  ball  and  chain.  Was  I  not  myself  Re 
nte's  first?  Has  she  not  dragged  me  up  these 
fifteen  years  who  knew  nothing  of  it  till  the  lift 
ing  power  of  her  wings  was  withdrawn  ?  What 
stuff  did  not  the  child  read  to  me  when,  after  my 
sickness,  I  thought  my  eyes  had  given  out  —  Eu 
tychius  —  and  Hartmann  !  Heaven  forgive  me  1 
Probably  she  did  not  understand  a  word  of  it,  and 
it  had  no  more  power  over  her  than  the  flames  of 
the  king's  furnace  over  the  ang<4.  Hut  what  a 
risk !  Wisdom  comes  so  late  in  life  —  that  is  my 


340  BUT  YET  A    WOlfAN. 

chief  complaint.  Misfortune,  pain,  —  I  will  not 
struggle  with  such  giants  of  mystery,  —  but  tell 
me  why  wisdom  comes  when  the  feast  is  over,  the 
wine  drunk,  and  the  guests  under  the  table,  — 
she,  the  hostess,  who  prepared  the  viands,  pressed 
the  vines,  and  knew  the  good  from  the  evil  ?  For 
my  part,  I  would  not  quarrel  with  that  personage 
who  gave  to  us  the  knowledge  of  good  and  evil, 
but  that  he  withheld  the  secret  of  discerning  be 
tween  them. 

"  No,  I  say,  he  is  not  worthy  of  her.  He  is 
neither  a  villain  nor  a  rogue,  —  but  he  is  blind. 
All  her  life  must  be  spent  in  opening  his  eyes. 
Of  what  use  is  it  to  her  that  he  cuts  off  a  leg  well 
and  lectures  in  the  Ecole  de  Medicine? — she  is 
not  ambitious!  But  I  am  incompetent  to  argue. 
I  have  not  loved,  and  have  no  premises.  Then  I 
am  a  man  who  grows  by  appropriating,  by  absorb 
ing  everything,  like  a  tree,  from  the  air  and  soil. 
Woman  has  a  different  principle  of  existence, — 
she  comes  like  a  pure  stream  from  the  springs  of 
the  mountain  to  waste  itself  in  the  valleys. 

"How  gay  I  was  the  day  of  the  wedding! 
Should  I  spoil  everything  with  a  gloomy  face? 
Moreover,  no  one  would  have  believed  me  if  I 
had  shed  tears.  At  the  door  of  the  church  they 
stepped  into  a  carriage  and  whirled  away,  leaving 
me  standing  alone  on  the  sidewalk  in  my  white 
gloves  and  waistcoat.  Then  the  smiles  were  of  no 
use,  and  disappeared.  There  was  a  great  crowd 


BUT  YET  A   WOMAN.  341 

I  heard  some  one  in  the  throng  say,  4  Marriage  de 
fille,  funerailles  de  pere  ! '  M.  Lande  walked  home 
with  me,  —  he  was  not  sad,  not  he!  It  must  be 
very  easy  to  marry  a  son,  —  but  a  daughter,  there 
is  somewhere  there  a  difference.  He  was  gay 
enough  for  two  on  the  way  home,  and  I  would  not 
confess  to  him.  So  we  went  along  merrily  together, 
and  drank  a  toast  to  the  bride  at  Vefour's,  and  in 
the  evening  we  sat  down  before  the  fire,  we  two 
alone,  and  played  at  being  merry.  Baptiste 
brought  in  the  coffee.  i  I  will  smoke  a  pipe,  if 
you  please,'  said  M.  Lande,  '  now  that  there  are  no 
longer  any  ladies.'  4  By  all  means,'  I  said  to  him, 
bravely ;  4  make  yourself  at  your  ease.' 

"  Then  after  a  while  the  children  came  back. 
They  had  gone  to  Beauvais,  —  it  was  ReneVs 
wish,  —  and  after  a  week  there  they  sent  for  me. 
Rende,  especially,  implored  me  to  come ;  but  I 
was  too  wise.  Is  she  happy  ?  Certainly  she  is 
happy.  The  bud  is  wide  open  in  the  sunshine; 
God  grant  it  do  not  drink  up  its  dew!  She  runs 
about,  from  home  to  the  Rue  du  Bac,  from  the 
Rue  du  Bac  to  the  Bois,  among  the  shops,  to  the 
opera.  Does  she  think  ever  of  her  Breton  ponies 
and  Beauvais,  I  wonder?  —  Certainly  she  is  happy. 
Only  she  thinks  all  these  treasures  of  happiness 
lie  scattered  about  the  streets  for  whoever  will 
gather  them  ;  but  they  are  all  in  her  own  heart. 
When  nothing  but  a  vintage  of  1800  will  warm 
it,  when  feet  are  cold  away  from  the  fire,  and  eyes 


342  BUT   YET  A  WOMAN. 

are  blind  without  spectacles,  it  makes  a  huge  dif 
ference.  M.  Lande  would  dispute  this  a  1'outrance, 
were  he  here.  I  am  safe  in  grumbling.  More- 
over,  one  does  not  believe  all  that  one  says. 

"  They  asked  me  to  pronounce  a  eulogy  over  my 
friend.  I  refused.  I  loved  him  too  well.  It  is 
strangers  who  write  eulogies.  For  that  reason, 
also,  I  do  not  speak  here  of  him.  I  find  it  easier 
to  go  at  noon,  when  the  sun  is  warm,  and  sit  among 
the  violets  at  Pere-la-Chaise.  It  is  Hence  who 
plants  these  violets.  Sometimes  we  meet  there, 
but  I  endeavor  to  avoid  it.  It  gives  her  pain  to 
see  me  there.  .  .  . 

"  There  is  something  in  Stephanie  which  I  do 
not  understand.  I  am  persuaded  that  Father  Le 
Blanc  knows  this  mystery,  —  that  assassination 
which  no  one  comprehends,  that  visit  to  M.  de 
Marzac.  I  did  not  think  gentleness  could  so  be 
come  her  till  after  she  came  back  from  Spain  ; 
and  after  Ilene*e  was  married  I  began  to  believe 
God  had  sent  her  to  me  in  my  old  age.  But  that 
dream  is  over  also. 

"  Yes,  yes,  Baptiste,  I  am  coming!  Here,  at 
least,  is  a  faithful  old  dog  who  extinguishes  my 
candle  and  says,  k  Good-night.'  Mon  Dieu,  what  an 
tngrate  I  am  !  No,  I  am  not  alone,  — 

.  .  .  "'cornme  1111  flambeau  celeste 
La  bonte'  de  Dieu  nous  reste, 
Elle  nous  garde  et  nous  suit 
Bonne  nuit !  Bonne  iiuit  1 ' " 


BUT  YET  A   WOMAN.  343 

The  convent  church  was  crowded.  In  the  tragic 
play  of  human  destiny  there  are  always  the  spec 
tators.  They  climbed  the  steps  and  poured  down 
the  aisles,  an  eager,  curious  throng,  filling  the 
chairs  while  yet  the  sacristan  was  lighting  the 
lamps  in  the  great  gallery  along  the  nave.  From 
that  loi'ty  place,  where  his  taper  moved  like  a 
wandering  star,  and  above  which  the  arches  rose 
into  a  gloom  the  lamps  could  not  dissipate,  they 
appeared  so  many  pigmies  whose  bustle  and  mur 
mur  the  vast  spaces  overhead  swallowed  up  and 
silenced. 

The  choir  alone  was  brilliant  with  light.  It 
shone  in  the  faces  of  those  nearest  the  railing, 
and  reached  up  to  the  white  statuo  of  the  Holy 
Mother  high  above  the  altar. 

Near  the  great  aisle  some  seats  had  been  re 
served.  People  looked  at  them  and  whispered. 
When  an  old  man  with  white  hair  came  into  the 
light,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  Renee,  whose  face 
was  very  pale,  every  one  leaned  forward  to  look 
at  them.  Presently  came  Father  Le  Blanc  with 
another  priest  whom  Renee  did  not  know.  Ifc  was 
Father  Roche,  who  had  just  returned  from  Rome. 

Seated  between  her  uncle  and  Roger,  R£nee 
moved  her  chair  close  to  her  husband's.  She  had 
not  yet  recovered  from  the  surprise  of  the  day 
before,  when  Father  Le  Blanc  had  told  her  of 
what  was  to  be.  She  had  chosen  her  part  out  of 
a  pure  heart,  and  misgivings  rarely  shadowed  it. 


344  BUT  YET  A  WOMAN. 

—  except  as  now  and  then  some  thought  of  the 
past,  or  of  Soeur  Ursule,  came  to  her  when  alone. 
But  that  Stephanie,  who  had  herself  pacified  her 
doubts,  should  step  into  the  place  she  had  once 
thought  to  take,  filled  her  again  with  trouble. 
She  clung  to  her  husband  with  a  feeling  of  min 
gled  happiness,  reproach,  and  awe.  She  had  often 
imagined  this  scene,  and  what  she  thought  once 
herself  to  do  gladly  she  now  waited  for  another  to 
accomplish  with  a  nervous  fear.  It  seemed  cruel 
to  her  now.  She  had  grown  to  love  Stephanie,  in 
spite  of  that  unknown  barrier  to  her  heart,  which 
she  knew  she  could  not  pass.  Some  tender  words 
and  kindly  acts  of  Stephanie's  in  the  days  before 
her  marriage,  a  kiss  on  the  marriage  day  which 
she  had  never  forgotten,  —  these  things  came  back 
to  her  as  she  sat  there  waiting,  and  a  mist  blurred 
the  lights  about  the  altar. 

The  silence  had  now  become  complete.  Those 
who  came  late,  and  endeavored  in  vain  on  the  out 
skirts  of  the  throng  to  reach  a  better  position, 
could  scarce  be  heard  by  those  who,  near  the  chan 
cel,  watched  the  glass  doors  of  the  choir  whence 
the  procession  would  issue.  It  was  a  winter  night, 
clear  and  cold.  All  the  stars  looked  down  on  the 
great  city  without,  whose  streets  were  full  of  lights 
and  people.  It  was  the  hour  of  the  theatres,  of 
music  and  revelry,  when  the  jester  puts  on  the 
mask  of  Pleasure  and  the  fool  shakes  his  bells. 
But  within  the  church  no  light  or  sound  pene» 


BUT  YET  A    WOMAN  845 

(rated  from  without.  The  rose  window  above  the 
organ  was  dark ;  no  one  would  ever  dream  of  the 
symphony  of  color  imprisoned  in  its  great  out 
lines.  From  one  window  only,  high  in  the  tran 
sept,  a  pale  light  from  the  moon  traversed  the 
glass  and  painted  a  cold  blue  lozenge  on  the  black 
wall  above  the  yellow  shimmer  of  the  candles. 

Suddenly,  without  warning,  the  organ  sounded, 
the  cantors  burst  into  song,  "  O  Gloriosa  Virgi- 
num,  sublimis  inter  sidera,"  and  the  procession  en 
tered  the  choir  doors.  How  exultant  the  voices, 
as  they  rose  and  echoed  overhead  like  the  tide  of 
a  sea  on  the  shore.  "  Thou  art  the  gate  of  the 
Supernal  King;  thou  the  refulgent  palace  of  light." 
As  Renee  saw  the  long  files  of  the  Religious,  hab 
ited  in  their  black  church-cloaks  and  bearing  their 
tapers,  follow  the  cross-bearer  to  their  places,  this 
triumphant  song  buoyed  up  her  heart;  and  often 
again  the  hymns  of  the  cantors  and  the  peal  of 
the  organ  gave  her  courage,  as  the  martial  strains 
inspire  the  soldier  in  the  long  day  of  battle.  She 
had  seen  the  figure,  between  the  Mother  Superior 
ess  and  assistant,  whom  she  knew  by  its  secular 
dress  to  be  Stdphanie  ;  but  she  had  not  dared  to 
look  in  its  face,  and,  as  the  procession  approached 
the  sanctuary  steps,  she  had  shut  her  eyes,  strug 
gling  with  the  sob  that  rose  from  her  heart  to  her 
throat.  When  she  heard  the  words  of  the  bishop, 
"  Pray  for  her,  O  Holy  Mother  of  God,"  she  opened 
them  wide  again. 


346  BUT  YET  A   WOMAN. 

Stephanie  was  alone  in  the  middle  of  the  choir, 
the  Religious  kneeling  on  either  side.  She  saw 
the  bishop  sprinkle  the  candle,  and  the  novice- 
elect,  led  by  the  Mother  Superioress,  rise  and  re 
ceive  it  from  his  hand  at  the  altar.  But  Avhen 
she  turned  again  to  resume  her  place  in  the  centre 
of  the  choir,  Rene'e  shut  her  eyes  and  held  fast  to 
Roger's  arm.  She  could  not  look  yet  into  the 
face  she  loved.  All  through  the  sermon  she  sat 
motionless  Sometimes  the  voice  of  the  preacher 
reached  her,  but  he  could  not  chain  her  thoughts. 
They  went  backwards  to  the  days  that  were  over, 
and  when  she  lifted  her  eyes  it  was  not  to  the 
preacher's  face,  but  to  that  figure  sitting  alone  in 
the  great  choir,  on  whose  hair  the  lights  shone 
and  on  whom  the  Mother  above  looked  down. 

From  these  dreams  she  awoke  with  a  start  when, 
in  reply  to  the  question  of  the  bishop,  "4  MY  child, 
what  do  you  demand  ?  "  she  heard  a  voice  which 
thrilled  her :  "  The  mercy  of  God  and  the  holy 
habit  of  religion."  Clear  and  sweet  it  fell  upon 
her  troubled  heart  as  the  words  of  the  Master 
upon  the  waters  of  Galilee,  "  Peace,  be  still !  *' 
and,  when  clothed  in  the  habit,  Stephanie  reen- 
tered  the  choir,  ani  the  joyful  words  of  the  An- 
tiphon  rose  above  the  organ,  "  Who  is  she  that 
cometh  up  from  the  desert,  flowing  with  delights, 
leaning  upon  her  beloved  ?  "  she  could  look  into 
her  face.  How  true  the  words  were,  u  Thou  art 
all  fair,  my  beloved,  meek  and  beautiful.  Come, 


BUT  YET  A  WOMAN.  347 

my  spouse  from  Libanus ;  come,  thou  shalt  be 
crowned."  Would  Stephanie  not  look  at  her? 
She  was  hungry  now  for  a  blessing  from  those 
eyes.  She  saw  the  cincture  girded  about  her,  and 
the  veil  placed  on  her  head.  She  watched  her  as 
she  received  the  black  church-cloak  and  took  her 
taper  in  her  hand.  She  heard  again  the  clear 
voice  rising  like  the  morning  star  above  the  mists 
of  earth  and  fading  in  the  celestial  day :  — 

"  The  empires  of  the  world,  and  all  the  grand 
eur  of  this  earth,  I  have  despised  for  love  of  our 
Lord  Jesus  Christ,  whom  I  have  seen,  whom  I 
have  loved,  in  whom  I  have  believed,  and  towards 
whom  my  heart  inclineth." 

The  choir  caught  up  the  words :  — 

"  Whom  I  have  seen,  whom  I  have  loved,  in 
whom  I  have  believed,  and  towards  whom  my 
heart  inclineth." 

Renee  watched  her  with  an  eagerness  of  hope 
and  desire.  Would  she  not  look  upon  her  now 
before  she  received,  prostrate  at  the  steps  of  the 
altar,  the  last  benediction,  and  passed  forever  be 
yond  earthly  eyes  ?  Yes,  as  she  turned  to  the 
vast  audience,  her  gaze  rested  for  the  first  time 
upon  the  little  group  near  the  chancel  rail.  Fa 
ther  Le  Blanc  crossed  himself  and  sighed.  Did 
he  think  of  the  part  he  had  played  in  this  human 
life  ?  Was  he  thinking  of  the  woman  at  whose 
white  throat  he  had  so  often  seen  the  flash  of  the 
czar's  diamonds?  Whose  heart  he,  better  than 


848  BUT  YET  A    WOMAN. 

any  other,  had  known  and  gauged,  and  whose  eyea 
said  to  him  now,  "  It  does  not  hurt,  O  Psetus  I  " 
It  would  be  difficult  to  tell  whether  the  good  fa 
ther's  sigh  was  one  of  anguish  or  exultation.  It 
was  only  for  a  moment,  —  but  for  that  moment 
all  the  light  of  the  choir  seemed  to  radiate  from 
that  single  face.  Then  the  veil  fell  over  it,  the 
Religious  rose  from  their  knees,  the  acolytes  took 
their  places,  the  procession  moved  again  to  the 
song  of  the  cantors  and  disappeared,  file  by  file, 
through  the  choir  doors. 

Still  the  audience  remained  silent,  till  the  cur 
tain  fell  behind  the  screen,  shutting  from  view  the 
moving  lights,  and  the  last  echoes  from  within, 
heard  faintly  as  from  a  world  invisible,  had  ceased. 
"  In  thee,  O  Lord,  have  I  put  my  trust :  let  me 
not  be  confounded  forever." 

In  the  great  throng  of  the  porch,  Re'ne'e,  cling 
ing  to  her  husband's  side,  whispered,  "  Did  you 
see  her  face  at  the  last  ?  It  was  a  prayer." 

And  Roger,  who  in  the  compass  of  that  last 
look  had  seen  the  past,  from  its  first  unknown 
pain  to  its  final  peace,  answered,  "  It  was  more 
than  a  prayer;  it  was  a  benediction." 


FOURTEEN  DAY  USE 

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